05-16-2011, 11:16 PM
All welcome. Western part of Halcyon Mountain.
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It wasn’t even a cave exactly—it was merely a fissure in the rocky face of the mountain, perhaps not even five feet wide. It continued some ways back, but he did not require all of the space. To get out of the chill of the east coast night and the rest of the elements, he had chosen this place purely on convenience. It had been nearby. It had required no work. As the sun had started to go down, he slinked into the crack in the earth’s crust like some kind of mythological beast. He had crumpled into a stiff sitting position, placing his head on crossed arms and sleeping as the dead. He was exhausted, and he did not move an inch in the night. Quintus was used to sleeping as such, and in such quarters. As such, the thought of sleeping somewhere in the open, or curled up on the ground, seemed wrong. This was how he was accustomed, and those imprinted customs were all he had.
His mind was as quiet as the morning he woke up in. There was not much to preoccupy him. Most had regrets, prides, or, at the very least, memories to dwell upon in quiet and solitary hours. Quintus did not have such things; it was not even so simple as that they had been locked away. As the healing wound on his temple would tell, he had been robbed of them. The term was ‘amnesia’—he had no lack of words for things—but he was not sure what it meant, why he was this way, or if he had anything to hide. From the shackles that adorned his wrists and the iron band around his neck, he thought that he might. He would have nothing to tell anyone that might ask. He was not afraid of them. There was not much that he was afraid of. Fear was a strong emotion, and all of those, to the man, were very slow.
As soon as he had awoken to faint daylight streaming in from the fissure in the rock, he rolled towards it. Several junctions of his skeleton snapped in protest, and his muscles ached. All of it felt usual, however. He slipped from the nightly hiding place and walked only a short distance to a low boulder. He sat, light orange eyes looking out over the bay, towards the ocean, and then the land he could see distantly across the bay.
No, Quintus did not fear much, but he was beginning to fear the future—a slow and accumulating anxiety. What he was to do was the biggest question. He couldn’t think of much more than to subsist, wait to see if his memories would be returned on an errant wind.
It seemed too much to hope for. With a deep and heavy sigh, he lifted a hand to his face.
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It wasn’t even a cave exactly—it was merely a fissure in the rocky face of the mountain, perhaps not even five feet wide. It continued some ways back, but he did not require all of the space. To get out of the chill of the east coast night and the rest of the elements, he had chosen this place purely on convenience. It had been nearby. It had required no work. As the sun had started to go down, he slinked into the crack in the earth’s crust like some kind of mythological beast. He had crumpled into a stiff sitting position, placing his head on crossed arms and sleeping as the dead. He was exhausted, and he did not move an inch in the night. Quintus was used to sleeping as such, and in such quarters. As such, the thought of sleeping somewhere in the open, or curled up on the ground, seemed wrong. This was how he was accustomed, and those imprinted customs were all he had.
His mind was as quiet as the morning he woke up in. There was not much to preoccupy him. Most had regrets, prides, or, at the very least, memories to dwell upon in quiet and solitary hours. Quintus did not have such things; it was not even so simple as that they had been locked away. As the healing wound on his temple would tell, he had been robbed of them. The term was ‘amnesia’—he had no lack of words for things—but he was not sure what it meant, why he was this way, or if he had anything to hide. From the shackles that adorned his wrists and the iron band around his neck, he thought that he might. He would have nothing to tell anyone that might ask. He was not afraid of them. There was not much that he was afraid of. Fear was a strong emotion, and all of those, to the man, were very slow.
As soon as he had awoken to faint daylight streaming in from the fissure in the rock, he rolled towards it. Several junctions of his skeleton snapped in protest, and his muscles ached. All of it felt usual, however. He slipped from the nightly hiding place and walked only a short distance to a low boulder. He sat, light orange eyes looking out over the bay, towards the ocean, and then the land he could see distantly across the bay.
No, Quintus did not fear much, but he was beginning to fear the future—a slow and accumulating anxiety. What he was to do was the biggest question. He couldn’t think of much more than to subsist, wait to see if his memories would be returned on an errant wind.
It seemed too much to hope for. With a deep and heavy sigh, he lifted a hand to his face.