(no subject)
Who: onethirdavarice and YOU
Where: In an alley somewhere in Somni.
Style: Either.
Status: Open
Laying face down in an alley was sadly, not a new low for Locke Lamora. He wished he could say that it was, but as he began to wake up, head pounding and tongue feeling thick and dry in his mouth, he began to wonder about his state of things. He groaned, rolling onto his side and wincing as old wounds complained. He couldn't help but wonder where Jean was; surely the burly man wouldn't have let him pass out in an alley for very long.
And for that matter, hadn't he been holed up in an inn? Wallowing in his own self-pity and loathing. Maybe Jean had finally thrown him out; it wasn't as though he didn't deserve it.
"Jean," he called quietly, throat hoarse as he shifted again, getting his hands under his torso and pushing himself up off the ground slowly, "Jean?" he repeated, bringing a hand up and rubbing his face, smearing dirt from his palm across his cheek, over his forehead. Something fell from his sleeve, clattering on the stones at his side. Locke ignored it, thinking it to be one of his knives- though he couldn't remember making a point to carry one of the stilettos with him.
"Gods-damn it Jean, this isn't funny anymore," Locke cursed, still expecting the other to come out and start berating him for being in such a state in the first place, and trying to ignore the niggling weight of fear that had begun to curl in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Jean had abandonned him. After all, wouldn't he be better off without Locke? Locke-fucking-Lamora, a piss poor garrista, and lately, an even poorer friend.
[[ooc; A garrista is a gang leader.]]
Where: In an alley somewhere in Somni.
Style: Either.
Status: Open
Laying face down in an alley was sadly, not a new low for Locke Lamora. He wished he could say that it was, but as he began to wake up, head pounding and tongue feeling thick and dry in his mouth, he began to wonder about his state of things. He groaned, rolling onto his side and wincing as old wounds complained. He couldn't help but wonder where Jean was; surely the burly man wouldn't have let him pass out in an alley for very long.
And for that matter, hadn't he been holed up in an inn? Wallowing in his own self-pity and loathing. Maybe Jean had finally thrown him out; it wasn't as though he didn't deserve it.
"Jean," he called quietly, throat hoarse as he shifted again, getting his hands under his torso and pushing himself up off the ground slowly, "Jean?" he repeated, bringing a hand up and rubbing his face, smearing dirt from his palm across his cheek, over his forehead. Something fell from his sleeve, clattering on the stones at his side. Locke ignored it, thinking it to be one of his knives- though he couldn't remember making a point to carry one of the stilettos with him.
"Gods-damn it Jean, this isn't funny anymore," Locke cursed, still expecting the other to come out and start berating him for being in such a state in the first place, and trying to ignore the niggling weight of fear that had begun to curl in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Jean had abandonned him. After all, wouldn't he be better off without Locke? Locke-fucking-Lamora, a piss poor garrista, and lately, an even poorer friend.
[[ooc; A garrista is a gang leader.]]