The Old Spaceman

'Every journey must come to its end'

[theoldspaceman]

What is this place?

The old man looks around, confused. 'This,' he begins, 'is a place for a weary traveller to rest and reflect. It is comfortable, I hope you'll find, for those simply passing through, or for those who wish to stay a while with their memories'

[theoldspaceman]

How long has it been since you've been out on an adventure? From the state of your sword, I'd say it's been a while.

'Well,' the man says, a glazed look overcoming his eyes, 'that depends on how you count. Time in this place runs funny.'

Slowly, he pulls a rusted pocket watch and chain from his pocket and shows it to you. The dial seems to be that of a normal clock, but the numbers have been replaced by strange characters and the hands appear to be completely missing.

Silently he takes the watch back and puts it away.

'As for the sword,' he says, 'the old thing never wanted to stay in one piece after...' He coughs slightly, and looks at you with his brightly shining eyes. 'But that's a story for another day,' he mutters, before busying himself with his hat.

[theoldspaceman]

Are you still in contact with Simon

The old man looks at the chair to his left briefly, before solemnly shaking his head. You can hear his voice cracking as he explains how he hasn't seen his dwarvish friend for a very long time. The light in his eyes flickers as he looks down once more.

[theoldspaceman]

A man sits in the corner...

A man in a faded red military coat sits in the corner. His old boots are caked with dried on mud and his straw hat is drawn low over his face. Dark grey hairs sprout around his head and chin, framing his mouth and nose in steely boundaries.

.

On one side of his battered armchair sits a table with a drink, virtually untouched: merely courtesy to the host. The other side houses a low seat, uninhabited save for a high pile of pillows and cushions. Occasionally the man will glance to this seat and share a brief and private chuckle with his memories before returning to his same unwavering pose. A weapon, long since cracked and broken, rests against the man's chair, and a shiny pick against the seat to his side.

.

He does not acknowledge either.

.

The man's hands are mostly hidden from sight, clutching something inside of the old  jacket, but they occasionally venture forth on a quest to scratch the man’s nose or to straighten his hat, their gnarled and sinewy forms quickly going about their work before swiftly retreating back from whence they came and resting once more.

.

Despite his haggard, worn out appearance, something still glows in the old man's eyes: perhaps it's the sign of a youthful spirit still inhabiting his weary frame, perhaps it's a lust, a yearning for adventure, or perhaps it's the light of the Old Universe, long since faded away. Perhaps he’ll tell you, if you ask him kindly, tales of his many adventures and many lives long since passed…

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