12
[Fenris has awoken today to the familiar feeling that comes after being stomped on by an ogre. Now, this is a pretty regular feeling for a warrior, as they often get knocked about a bit and sometimes, indeed, get stomped on by ogres. Everything hurts and oh Maker why does it feel like his brain is about to explode out of his head?
Did he go out drinking last night? No, he’s pretty certain he didn’t. The journal picks up a sickly groan as he tries and fails to convince himself to open his eyes. No. Light would be bad. Dark covers and hoping for unconsciousness again is good. For a moment, he starts to achieve this, but is pulled out of it by the fact that something is licking his head. Just typical. You want to achieve oblivion and something always comes along to...
SOMETHING IS LICKING HIS HEAD. For a second, he wonders if Isabela’s got into his room again, but no. Her tounge isn’t that raspy. And she doesn’t purr. Much. This, sadly, means he has to open one eye to determine exactly what is licking his head and then somehow muster up the energy to kill it. There is a long, confused pause, before his voice gets marginally louder as he picks up his journal to speak into it]
...Anders why is your cat in my room? [Another pause] And why is it dressed in...
[And then, through the pained swirly-sloshy-achey-brain mess, all the memories of the past week rush in like that horrible night of drunken regrets. Except it was a whole week of drunken regrets, and there was no alcohol involved]
Oh vishante.
Did he go out drinking last night? No, he’s pretty certain he didn’t. The journal picks up a sickly groan as he tries and fails to convince himself to open his eyes. No. Light would be bad. Dark covers and hoping for unconsciousness again is good. For a moment, he starts to achieve this, but is pulled out of it by the fact that something is licking his head. Just typical. You want to achieve oblivion and something always comes along to...
SOMETHING IS LICKING HIS HEAD. For a second, he wonders if Isabela’s got into his room again, but no. Her tounge isn’t that raspy. And she doesn’t purr. Much. This, sadly, means he has to open one eye to determine exactly what is licking his head and then somehow muster up the energy to kill it. There is a long, confused pause, before his voice gets marginally louder as he picks up his journal to speak into it]
...Anders why is your cat in my room? [Another pause] And why is it dressed in...
[And then, through the pained swirly-sloshy-achey-brain mess, all the memories of the past week rush in like that horrible night of drunken regrets. Except it was a whole week of drunken regrets, and there was no alcohol involved]
Oh vishante.