Post by Chains on Aug 19, 2009 18:53:57 GMT -5
Alexander came awake to the slow beat of his heart, reproachful and rebuking. To satisfy it, he dragged in a long breath, held it and released it for another. As always, it seemed to take forever for his lungs to fill in what was no doubt, an effect of his drowning. He imagined his lungs as crumpled, crippled things and had learned to be patient with them. At least he had stopped hacking up rotted bits of them: that something to be grateful for.
He lay with his eyes closed, moderating his breathing and gathering his senses. He had come to know his body in a way he had not thought possible (but which now seemed perfectly natural) and he let his awareness register this new set of injuries. Pull and burn of a stab wound beneath his third rib on the left side- small but deep, an expert thrust that had just barely missed being fatal. It wasn't bleeding now but Alexander was willing to bet any small movement would set it off. He would have to deal with that. What else. His right eye felt swollen shut, and his face seemed to be bruised quite extensively from where he had the pavement, but those were minor. Was that it? He went back to listening to his breathing but it was no more hindered than normal, and internally, all seemed to be intact.
Amazing.
Alexander felt the smallest of smiles split his face, tugging painfully at the swollen flesh, and making his cracked lips bleed.
Not bad, all things considered.
Lucky.
But now luck had nothing to do with it and he should really get up and deal with the knife wound before it festered. Alexander got his left eye open with some effort-blood had crusted it almost shut and his right was hopelessly swollen as he figured. All in all, he was fairly sure he had looked better.
His ceiling swam fuzzily into focus. He blinked his good eye. At least he thought it was his ceiling. When had it turned this off white color? And when had it gotten that water stain, spreading like some hideous infection above him?
Something was not right.
Alexander hauled himself into a sitting position and stared around him, disoriented and confused. It was late evening, and the sun was making one final rally against the oncoming night. It painted the truth in shades of gold- stark and clear and undeniable. He was not in his room.
Alexander heaved the sheets off him and scrambled, bare-chested to the window. Unfamiliar streets. Unfamiliar buildings. Unfamiliar stone, unfamiliar sky, oh fuck, oh fuck. The window hadn't been opened in a while and it protested him forcing it: groaning and coating his hands with rust. Alexander braced himself and heaved. It gave, but reluctantly, and the effort re-opened the wound in his side. It was bleeding and frantic, that the stuck his head out into the street and leaned his body out as far as he dared, searching for a familiar landmark.
Nothing.
He stumbled back wards onto the bed and held his head in his hands, heedless of the pulses of blood that ran down his side. He recalled the moment before sleep. How, as Senge, he had hauled himself inside, tail dragging and head lowered, across the floor of his house to the bed. His house. His bed. How he had released his hold on that second skin and collapsed into the sheets. His sheets. Then came sleep.
And now he was here. He forced himself to consider the possibilities. Had he been moved while he slept? It was almost impossible. If he had been found by those who looked for him, he would have been killed, not transported somewhere.
Had he mistaken his surroundings as Senge? Equally as unlikely. He remembered the route he had taken home and smell of the uncleaned hearth as he pushed his way inside.
So what happened, Alexander? he asked himself. But try as he might, nothing came to mind. It was horribly uncomfortable he realized, to have a gap in his memories- and the gaping mental hole left him feeling vulnerable. And dizzy.
Fuck, his side.
The Sinful Sisters were where he left them: he had slung them over the back of his desk chair when he had come in, and there they were, waiting for him on the only chair in this room. None of his other belongings had made it through, but his knives sat there patiently, as if waiting to be noticed. What the hell was going on?
Alexander lurched over to the chair and grabbed the weapon's belt he kept them sheathed in. He drew Laughing Girl from her sheath, and proceeded to slash the bed sheet into makeshift bandages. He balled what was left of the fabric and held it to the wound until it stopped bleeding, then wound his chest tight in strips of sheet. Not ideal, but he had bigger things to worry about.
A quick search of the room revealed that it was mostly empty except for the closet which held several dozen musty shirts. Alexander purloined the cleanest, and dragged it on. Several others he stripped off their hangers and used to wrap the Sinful Sisters-which he then stowed under the closest-between its bottom and the floor. They barely fit, but when he had pushed them as far back as he dared, they were for all purposes-invisible. He planned to return here tonight: right now, was a scouting mission of sorts and he could do that far more easily as Senge, without the burden of human weapons.
After one last quick look around, Alexander let himself out of his room and closed the door behind him. He found himself in a tavern of sorts. And although he proceeded with caution, he need not have bothered. It was utterly deserted.
Outside, the sun was dying. It's golden rays were silent witnesses as a lone man entered the bordering alley and, and a bestial shape emerged several long seconds later. It shook itself once, pricked its long ears, and padded off-in pursuit of the fading light.
He lay with his eyes closed, moderating his breathing and gathering his senses. He had come to know his body in a way he had not thought possible (but which now seemed perfectly natural) and he let his awareness register this new set of injuries. Pull and burn of a stab wound beneath his third rib on the left side- small but deep, an expert thrust that had just barely missed being fatal. It wasn't bleeding now but Alexander was willing to bet any small movement would set it off. He would have to deal with that. What else. His right eye felt swollen shut, and his face seemed to be bruised quite extensively from where he had the pavement, but those were minor. Was that it? He went back to listening to his breathing but it was no more hindered than normal, and internally, all seemed to be intact.
Amazing.
Alexander felt the smallest of smiles split his face, tugging painfully at the swollen flesh, and making his cracked lips bleed.
Not bad, all things considered.
Lucky.
But now luck had nothing to do with it and he should really get up and deal with the knife wound before it festered. Alexander got his left eye open with some effort-blood had crusted it almost shut and his right was hopelessly swollen as he figured. All in all, he was fairly sure he had looked better.
His ceiling swam fuzzily into focus. He blinked his good eye. At least he thought it was his ceiling. When had it turned this off white color? And when had it gotten that water stain, spreading like some hideous infection above him?
Something was not right.
Alexander hauled himself into a sitting position and stared around him, disoriented and confused. It was late evening, and the sun was making one final rally against the oncoming night. It painted the truth in shades of gold- stark and clear and undeniable. He was not in his room.
Alexander heaved the sheets off him and scrambled, bare-chested to the window. Unfamiliar streets. Unfamiliar buildings. Unfamiliar stone, unfamiliar sky, oh fuck, oh fuck. The window hadn't been opened in a while and it protested him forcing it: groaning and coating his hands with rust. Alexander braced himself and heaved. It gave, but reluctantly, and the effort re-opened the wound in his side. It was bleeding and frantic, that the stuck his head out into the street and leaned his body out as far as he dared, searching for a familiar landmark.
Nothing.
He stumbled back wards onto the bed and held his head in his hands, heedless of the pulses of blood that ran down his side. He recalled the moment before sleep. How, as Senge, he had hauled himself inside, tail dragging and head lowered, across the floor of his house to the bed. His house. His bed. How he had released his hold on that second skin and collapsed into the sheets. His sheets. Then came sleep.
And now he was here. He forced himself to consider the possibilities. Had he been moved while he slept? It was almost impossible. If he had been found by those who looked for him, he would have been killed, not transported somewhere.
Had he mistaken his surroundings as Senge? Equally as unlikely. He remembered the route he had taken home and smell of the uncleaned hearth as he pushed his way inside.
So what happened, Alexander? he asked himself. But try as he might, nothing came to mind. It was horribly uncomfortable he realized, to have a gap in his memories- and the gaping mental hole left him feeling vulnerable. And dizzy.
Fuck, his side.
The Sinful Sisters were where he left them: he had slung them over the back of his desk chair when he had come in, and there they were, waiting for him on the only chair in this room. None of his other belongings had made it through, but his knives sat there patiently, as if waiting to be noticed. What the hell was going on?
Alexander lurched over to the chair and grabbed the weapon's belt he kept them sheathed in. He drew Laughing Girl from her sheath, and proceeded to slash the bed sheet into makeshift bandages. He balled what was left of the fabric and held it to the wound until it stopped bleeding, then wound his chest tight in strips of sheet. Not ideal, but he had bigger things to worry about.
A quick search of the room revealed that it was mostly empty except for the closet which held several dozen musty shirts. Alexander purloined the cleanest, and dragged it on. Several others he stripped off their hangers and used to wrap the Sinful Sisters-which he then stowed under the closest-between its bottom and the floor. They barely fit, but when he had pushed them as far back as he dared, they were for all purposes-invisible. He planned to return here tonight: right now, was a scouting mission of sorts and he could do that far more easily as Senge, without the burden of human weapons.
After one last quick look around, Alexander let himself out of his room and closed the door behind him. He found himself in a tavern of sorts. And although he proceeded with caution, he need not have bothered. It was utterly deserted.
Outside, the sun was dying. It's golden rays were silent witnesses as a lone man entered the bordering alley and, and a bestial shape emerged several long seconds later. It shook itself once, pricked its long ears, and padded off-in pursuit of the fading light.