FFXIV Write Prompt #17: Novel
Fact was, he needed to focus on his next novel.
He was a man who liked to keep his hands - and often his mind - busy. Often this came via bounty hunting, to scratch the same itch he'd always had... even before the demon, he'd lived for a good fight - and Eorzea had no shortage of monstrously large game to sate such a need.
The arena had grown...predictable. Boring. He knew how to work the crowd, he knew how to make a show of his battle prowess - eventually even the roar of the crowd isn't enough.
He needed to focus on his writing, at present, however - not the fighting.
It was more of a challenge, these days. More and more, the deskwork and writing that were a welcome respite to camping and roughing it on hunts weren't as welcome as they'd once been.
The lawyer paced, his drink just grasped by the tips of his fingers, dangling in his grip. Law was one thing - concrete, yet moldable. He went in knowing, at least, where to start. What his materials were to work with.
But now, delving into the depths of his own mind for a new tale to tell, a book to publish... all he could hear was the insidious whispering of the demon to which he'd become bound.
The hunt mattered most, now. Nothing else could envelop him as it once had - he still enjoyed going to the Saucer, and betting on 'bos; he still enjoyed practicing law, and writing books. But always, always the hunger was there. Waiting. Scratching at the door.
One moment you're watching the birds round the bend, and in the split second that you blink, the demon has painted a picture of your hands around the throat of the lass cheering next to you - or the intestines of that other fellow just there, spilled across the stands.
And then you're back, quick as that - the vision so real it's breathtaking, and you're left wondering if your bird pulled ahead, or if the scent of warm, fresh blood was real... afraid to turn your head and see.
He drained what was left in his glass, before setting it on the nearby desk with a heavy thud - sinking into the desk-chair nearby, at last.
"Perhaps the romance novels could use a little grit, eh? The people love sex and violence, after all. Why shouldn't I be generous?" And perhaps channeling some of the creature's violence outward in some way would be akin to bleeding it off; maybe there would be a moment's peace in his mind, if he could get some of it on paper.
