Wandering Feet.
Characters: Deuce (chovahano), [OPEN]
Location: Outside
Date: [Present]
Rating: [PG-13]
Deuce strolled.
He wasn't certain where he was or where he was going, but the feeling that came with lazy, purposeless exploration was a good one. Good and familiar -- a distressingly rare commodity in this strange new place. When he had first reached the open air, Deuce had made the mistake of looking out at the horizon.
Water. Unyielding, unending water.
Heart in his mouth, he had nearly fled back to the safety of his room. Too many cautionary tales, too many childhood songs.
'Tread gently, young Rom,' they warned, 'for across the great water is your death.'
A foolish Romany superstition, perhaps. But that didn't make his fear of it any less, and it certainly didn't assuage his urge to sit where he stood and count off a half-dozen Lord's Prayers on his rosary. Deuce kept walking; he sincerely doubted the Lord had anything to do with boats or their various goings on. He in all of His infinite wisdom could not be so cruel, surely.
His fingers longing for his fiddle, Deuce began to hum, and as his fear receded, to sing.
"Come along, my little gypsy girl,
Come along with me, I pray!
A-stealing horses we will go,
O'er the hills so far away."
As strange and unpleasant as Deuce found his current circumstances, he knew they could be worse.
After all, Hell had no music.
((ooc: Feel free to bump into Deuce while he wanders about. If you ask nicely, perhaps he'll sing for you.))
Location: Outside
Date: [Present]
Rating: [PG-13]
Deuce strolled.
He wasn't certain where he was or where he was going, but the feeling that came with lazy, purposeless exploration was a good one. Good and familiar -- a distressingly rare commodity in this strange new place. When he had first reached the open air, Deuce had made the mistake of looking out at the horizon.
Water. Unyielding, unending water.
Heart in his mouth, he had nearly fled back to the safety of his room. Too many cautionary tales, too many childhood songs.
'Tread gently, young Rom,' they warned, 'for across the great water is your death.'
A foolish Romany superstition, perhaps. But that didn't make his fear of it any less, and it certainly didn't assuage his urge to sit where he stood and count off a half-dozen Lord's Prayers on his rosary. Deuce kept walking; he sincerely doubted the Lord had anything to do with boats or their various goings on. He in all of His infinite wisdom could not be so cruel, surely.
His fingers longing for his fiddle, Deuce began to hum, and as his fear receded, to sing.
"Come along, my little gypsy girl,
Come along with me, I pray!
A-stealing horses we will go,
O'er the hills so far away."
As strange and unpleasant as Deuce found his current circumstances, he knew they could be worse.
After all, Hell had no music.
((ooc: Feel free to bump into Deuce while he wanders about. If you ask nicely, perhaps he'll sing for you.))