(no subject)

Apr 14, 2006 13:24

The Door opens, unusually quiet; whisper thin, there is -- a strange scent and sound behind it. Something comforting, like mom's homemade cookies and the bark of the dog you had when you were eight -- had you a dog, anyway, or a mother who made cookies. It's a resting place from which Raistlin Majere comes, and it comes with happy dreams and pleasant memories -- which he rolls off his shoulders like a duck does water.

As soon as the door shuts, the tap of his staff and the rustle of black velvet and the cloying scent of roses, some unknown spice, and rot accompany his every step; he moves to the bar, and extends one hand from a voluminous sleeve -- golden fingers against the wood, he does not bother to speak. Bar gives him his mulled wine and he takes the glass and turns his eyes across Milliways.

It's been a long time; but when has that ever mattered to the Master of Past and Present?

raven, raistlin majere

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