#thread 012

[icarusfclling]

WHO:  @whisperedfury WHERE:  Tartarus, below the surface WHEN:  October, 2127 WEARING:  charcoal on black on black (x)

Everything’s wilder underground, trust me. Icarus wants to strangle Xanthos for dragging him here, wants to lock himself in his (admittedly, very nice) hotel room and book a return flight to Arcadia instead of Olympe, wants to relinquish his seat in the Quorum and disappear into the hills never to be seen again. It’s been ten months since his mother died. Three months since he began the excruciating process of separating from the man he’d once thought to be the love of his life. He feels empty, unmoored, adrift; a vacation to Gaia’s main hub of decadence and depravity feels wrong in a hundred thousand different ways but here he is walking into a club in the depths of Tartarus anyway. At least the liquor here is stronger, or so his companions keep saying - perhaps with enough alcohol he might actually be able to enjoy this.

By the time he orders a second drink there are only two others still sitting at the table, both of them casting longing glances towards the dancers circulating through the room. Icarus waves off their invitations, tells them to go enjoy themselves, and settles back into the plush seat waiting for the buzz to hit. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but he has to open them when he hears a soft chuckle from somewhere to his left. There’s a woman leaning over to set a glass in front of him, already beading with condensation, and Icarus gets a little lost in the fall of her dark curly hair before she tucks it behind her shoulder and fixes him with a smile that makes his head spin. Maybe Xanthos was right about Tartarene alcohol.

“I mean no offense, but you don’t really look like a cocktail waitress.”

[ghostofshartan]

[Open] take a look, it's in a book!

Fenris looked around the cramped shop, trying not to seem too out of place. Even now, he felt like an impostor in a book shop. The titles of the fat tomes seemed to stare judgmentally down at him, as if they could sense - somehow - that he did not belong here.

Slaves were not meant to read.

Yet he was no longer a slave. It was surprising, how often he had to remind himself of that one fact. He was a free man, and could buy a book if he so chose. He frowned again at the titles, but they eluded him still.

The letters, yes, he knew. That was a T, then an R, then an A, then a V. He had trouble forming them into words still without sounding them out, and inside the quiet bookshop he did not dare.

"Something I can help you to find?" the shopkeep asked, turning the corner.

Fenris almost jumped. He put one hand on the bookshelf to steady himself - almost, but not quite touching the leather bound spines of the books.

"I need a book," he said. He had struggled through Shartan's book many times, but Hawke had told him he should practice with more than one book.

"Were you looking for anything in particular?"

"No. Does it matter?" he asked.

The shopkeep peered at him intently. "I suppose it doesn't," he said. "Let me see what I can find." He bustled off, leaving Fenris alone in the bookshop.