run, run, run away : no sense of time
In about the time it takes to register that the door has opened, someone (coiled dark hair, pale smooth skin peppered with ash-grey freckles, dark eyes and a strong nose - tall and lithe, dressed in simple but tailored black) has already come through it. The man stands at the bar, touching it, looking around the room, even flickering a long, forked tongue through his lips to taste the air. All senses covered. The polished wood feels familiar, and there are all the tables and chairs, and the juke box. The taste of the air is...not the same. The Nexus shifts too much, and there has been some sort of shift here, a change in the air, as if the bar had sailed from one sea into another. Which was, for this strange man at least, its own powerful sort of familiar feeling.
In all honesty, he just hadn't thought about the Nexus. It had been six years since he had returned (not so very long at all, in the context of his ab-life) and in that time there had been decisions to make, changes to adjust to, crises to avert. It was all too easy to burrow into his city and his duties and allow his heart to hibernate once again. To become the barely-warm stone in his chest, retaining only the ghost of the volcanic tumult of passions that had ruled him once under twinned sets of pale, mercilessly beautiful hands. That had only once reawoken on hearing a haunting voice speak. He had nearly burned himself up, so many times, and well he knew that it was far more coincidence than his own good sense that had let him escape, and hide, and rest, and recover.
But now they had sailed near Gnur Kett again, near the homeland of the Cactacae, and if he closed his eyes on a still night, he could hear the great insectoid hum that surrounded a certain island. The dust was not so heavy on his memories of this place that they could remain asleep, leaving him free of thoughts of those he had loved too much. The old burns ached, inside and out, and there was no one in his home who understood, no comfort to be had there.
For anyone else trying to leave Armada, the process was an ordeal. For the Brucolac it was a matter of opening a drawer and finding his PINpoint. What he would find when he arrived in the Nexus, he did not know, but any escape or distraction from the weight of his memories would be welcome.
In all honesty, he just hadn't thought about the Nexus. It had been six years since he had returned (not so very long at all, in the context of his ab-life) and in that time there had been decisions to make, changes to adjust to, crises to avert. It was all too easy to burrow into his city and his duties and allow his heart to hibernate once again. To become the barely-warm stone in his chest, retaining only the ghost of the volcanic tumult of passions that had ruled him once under twinned sets of pale, mercilessly beautiful hands. That had only once reawoken on hearing a haunting voice speak. He had nearly burned himself up, so many times, and well he knew that it was far more coincidence than his own good sense that had let him escape, and hide, and rest, and recover.
But now they had sailed near Gnur Kett again, near the homeland of the Cactacae, and if he closed his eyes on a still night, he could hear the great insectoid hum that surrounded a certain island. The dust was not so heavy on his memories of this place that they could remain asleep, leaving him free of thoughts of those he had loved too much. The old burns ached, inside and out, and there was no one in his home who understood, no comfort to be had there.
For anyone else trying to leave Armada, the process was an ordeal. For the Brucolac it was a matter of opening a drawer and finding his PINpoint. What he would find when he arrived in the Nexus, he did not know, but any escape or distraction from the weight of his memories would be welcome.