(no subject)
Drink with me to days gone by.
At some point in the afternoon, just as the end of the universe recycles itself and begins anew its explosions in the observation window, a pale, tangle-haired man slips down the stairs from the rooms. It's been twelve hours... has it been twelve hours? Something like twelve hours, maybe more... maybe it's been fourteen... he can't remember what comes after that but it's another kind of hell, keeping time, counting...
To the life that used to be.
He walks slowly, seeming to concentrate intently on each step... and still he seems to get lost half way between where he was and wherever he was going. He stands there in the middle of the room for a few moments, brows furrowed behind his hair.
At the shrine of friendship, never say die.
Whether it was his originally intended direction or not, he eventually spots a free space on the couch near the fire, without too many people around, and sorts his way through the noise and past the bright light of the observation window to get there. There, he stuffs himself into a corner of the couch, hugging his knees to his chest, and stares with weary eyes at the fire as pinpricks of sweat appear on his forehead.
Let the wine of friendship never run dry.
It is not going to be a good week.
Here´s to you, and here´s to me.
[ooc: And Miniver relocates to infirmary here!]
At some point in the afternoon, just as the end of the universe recycles itself and begins anew its explosions in the observation window, a pale, tangle-haired man slips down the stairs from the rooms. It's been twelve hours... has it been twelve hours? Something like twelve hours, maybe more... maybe it's been fourteen... he can't remember what comes after that but it's another kind of hell, keeping time, counting...
To the life that used to be.
He walks slowly, seeming to concentrate intently on each step... and still he seems to get lost half way between where he was and wherever he was going. He stands there in the middle of the room for a few moments, brows furrowed behind his hair.
At the shrine of friendship, never say die.
Whether it was his originally intended direction or not, he eventually spots a free space on the couch near the fire, without too many people around, and sorts his way through the noise and past the bright light of the observation window to get there. There, he stuffs himself into a corner of the couch, hugging his knees to his chest, and stares with weary eyes at the fire as pinpricks of sweat appear on his forehead.
Let the wine of friendship never run dry.
It is not going to be a good week.
Here´s to you, and here´s to me.
[ooc: And Miniver relocates to infirmary here!]