Javert ✍ 014 (Interactive Dream)
Who: Inspector Javert and somarium. This includes anyone and everyone; those traveling to Noctaerium did not do so until after this dream was complete!
Where: Javert's Dreamspace.
When: Toulon Prison Docks, France, early 1800s.
Style: I'm lazy today, and I would probably prefer first. But whatever makes it flow is good!
Status: Open!
The prisoners were hauled single-file out of the dingy galley ship.
Both had emerged from the spitting mist of a frightfully chilly day. The dank smells of sewage, rain, and human sweat were pungent and raw. The only sounds, aside from the dragging chains of the prisoners, pinioned by leg, arm and neck, were the barks of the accompanying guards: "March! Look forward! Quickly!"
One young guard stood out among the rest, rabid, cruel fiends as some of the louder ones were.
The odd one out was young and possessed a fierce eye, having no more than twenty-five years to his name. But this man's youth ended with the smoothness of his dark, swarthy skin and the jet black of his thick hair. His bearing was that of a man twice his age, world-hardened, cold and irreproachable. His jaw was tight and firm. He carried himself like a seasoned soldier, shoulders back, head held high. Rather than shout and snap and hassle the prisoners as they dragged their feet along, he stood like a silent statue aside, his club held under the bend of his elbow. For the most part, he kept his hands off: so long as the prisoners walked as they should, he let them walk. But every now and again a huge, dark hand would dart out, touch a slouching slacker by the shoulder and guide him to his aching feet with a low, calm word or two.
There was one prisoner who emerged from the throng of violent folks, as well.
His head was a heavy mop of wild brown hair, face dirtied and overgrown with beard. He kept his head down as if in prayer, his hands clasped in front of him. On the chains round his collar bore the faded chiseled prison number:
24601.
The unsettling young prison guard's eyes followed that man down the ramp. He followed that man to the first post. The second.
24601 made his move with a toss of heavy chains.
The bestial prisoner shrugged them off like a feather shawl, throwing them to the prisoner behind him and darting immediately for the water's edge. "He's running for the water!" cried one of the newest adjutant guards, eager and naive. A hum swelled from the crowd, the thrown chains were swung and another. Pandemonium prevailed, and it was the sly, crafty 24601 at the bottom of it. The scene immediately dissolved in a throng of fists, shouts, and clubs.
A riot has begun.
And Adjutant Guard Javert, the young statue with the demeanor and habits of a man of forty, was caught on the opposite end of the tumult from 24601.
((OOC: Here's the deal! All participants may choose to pop into this dream in the middle of the prison chain gang riot, as a bystander, or with the irreverent and belligerent guards. Twenty-something Javert will acknowledge you as one of the three; just label in the comments which one you choose. Or something else entirely, if you're feeling creative today.))
Where: Javert's Dreamspace.
When: Toulon Prison Docks, France, early 1800s.
Style: I'm lazy today, and I would probably prefer first. But whatever makes it flow is good!
Status: Open!
The prisoners were hauled single-file out of the dingy galley ship.
Both had emerged from the spitting mist of a frightfully chilly day. The dank smells of sewage, rain, and human sweat were pungent and raw. The only sounds, aside from the dragging chains of the prisoners, pinioned by leg, arm and neck, were the barks of the accompanying guards: "March! Look forward! Quickly!"
One young guard stood out among the rest, rabid, cruel fiends as some of the louder ones were.
The odd one out was young and possessed a fierce eye, having no more than twenty-five years to his name. But this man's youth ended with the smoothness of his dark, swarthy skin and the jet black of his thick hair. His bearing was that of a man twice his age, world-hardened, cold and irreproachable. His jaw was tight and firm. He carried himself like a seasoned soldier, shoulders back, head held high. Rather than shout and snap and hassle the prisoners as they dragged their feet along, he stood like a silent statue aside, his club held under the bend of his elbow. For the most part, he kept his hands off: so long as the prisoners walked as they should, he let them walk. But every now and again a huge, dark hand would dart out, touch a slouching slacker by the shoulder and guide him to his aching feet with a low, calm word or two.
There was one prisoner who emerged from the throng of violent folks, as well.
His head was a heavy mop of wild brown hair, face dirtied and overgrown with beard. He kept his head down as if in prayer, his hands clasped in front of him. On the chains round his collar bore the faded chiseled prison number:
24601.
The unsettling young prison guard's eyes followed that man down the ramp. He followed that man to the first post. The second.
24601 made his move with a toss of heavy chains.
The bestial prisoner shrugged them off like a feather shawl, throwing them to the prisoner behind him and darting immediately for the water's edge. "He's running for the water!" cried one of the newest adjutant guards, eager and naive. A hum swelled from the crowd, the thrown chains were swung and another. Pandemonium prevailed, and it was the sly, crafty 24601 at the bottom of it. The scene immediately dissolved in a throng of fists, shouts, and clubs.
A riot has begun.
And Adjutant Guard Javert, the young statue with the demeanor and habits of a man of forty, was caught on the opposite end of the tumult from 24601.
((OOC: Here's the deal! All participants may choose to pop into this dream in the middle of the prison chain gang riot, as a bystander, or with the irreverent and belligerent guards. Twenty-something Javert will acknowledge you as one of the three; just label in the comments which one you choose. Or something else entirely, if you're feeling creative today.))