[First Pint] [Accidental Video]
[Just slightly past midnight - it’s dark, and as the feed seems to turn itself on, there’s not much to see, but plenty to hear. A sudden gasp, as someone seems to wake up in convenience to the beginning of the feed, a despaired sort of choke, rustling of sheets. The person continues to pant, movement of shadows, a disoriented sort of stumbling, as if unsure what really awoke them. It seems to be nothing, after all, as a strike of a flame appears, a wavering light source that transfers to a candle, leaving an eerily luminated view of England’s face in the blank space. He sweats profusely, bothered by nothing more than some lingering nightmare, apparently. Taking the candle, he moves slowly to the window, still in the camera’s view. He opens it for some fresh air, looking out on the City. He doesn’t look like he’s going to get to sleep again any time soon.]
… if today… no, yesterday… today is…
[It’s that biological clock ticking in his mind, approaching with dread, only built higher with recent events. He grimaces, a churning in his stomach. He feels ill. He looks ill, he braces, leaning forward.]
… of course. My own damn reward for all that’s happened…! And now this damn day is approaching…
[A snarled curse, shaky movement from the window, pacing. Nervous. He doesn’t notice the camera, only taking to himself, to shadows, his own eyes clouded with shame. He pauses in the middle for only a second, before heading for the bedroom door - down, perhaps, to try and calm his nerves with a cup of tea. But indeed - it’s going to be a long time.]
[OOC: Monday, the 27th of June. This marks the one-week countdown to the 4th of July, a day England holds in high disregard, an anticipation of dread that’s always started at this point for as long as he can remember since that Day. England is beginning his preemptive symptom to memories of the Revolution.]
… if today… no, yesterday… today is…
[It’s that biological clock ticking in his mind, approaching with dread, only built higher with recent events. He grimaces, a churning in his stomach. He feels ill. He looks ill, he braces, leaning forward.]
… of course. My own damn reward for all that’s happened…! And now this damn day is approaching…
[A snarled curse, shaky movement from the window, pacing. Nervous. He doesn’t notice the camera, only taking to himself, to shadows, his own eyes clouded with shame. He pauses in the middle for only a second, before heading for the bedroom door - down, perhaps, to try and calm his nerves with a cup of tea. But indeed - it’s going to be a long time.]
[OOC: Monday, the 27th of June. This marks the one-week countdown to the 4th of July, a day England holds in high disregard, an anticipation of dread that’s always started at this point for as long as he can remember since that Day. England is beginning his preemptive symptom to memories of the Revolution.]