two thousand miles and one left turn

Jimson Morris · 09-10-2012, 12:56 PM

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Word Count: 562 // One or two people, please Smile

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It was full dark by the time Vigilante consented to allow Jimson to stay within the borders of Cour de Miracles; because of this, it was fairly late by the time he reached the Hotel, and so he did not call out when he walked in the door for fear of waking anyone. The building was quiet, a looming, almost eerie structure in the dark. The giant dog crept as quietly as he could, which was not very, down the hall of the hotel. His room in the farmhouse back home had been on the top floor, and so when he found stairs, he climbed them until there were no more, and then picked a direction at random and walked until he found an open door. As best as he could discern in the paltry moonlight filtering in through the window, the room contained a bed and a dresser, as well as another door behind which he assumed was a washroom. A thin layer of dusty sand covered everything; well, at least the room wasn't musty, thanks to the open window. Closing the door behind him, Jimson leaned his staff against the door frame, set his bag, bow, and quiver on the floor next to it, and made his way over to the open window. Beyond lay an overgrown garden, a once cultivated area which was being mercilessly assimilated into the thick forest which circled the hotel. He sighed heavily, tracing figures into the dust on the windowsill with a finger. He missed home. Rather, he missed what home used to be -- the house he'd grown up in, the family that surrounded him, long summer days spent watching the sheep. None of it was there anymore. He chided himself -- it was dumb to sit sulking over things he couldn't change. Even if he went back home, what he really missed about it would still be gone. His two brothers would be there -- maybe, if they hadn't followed in Jimson's stead and taken off, too -- and it would be wonderful to see them, but it wasn't enough.

Sighing again, the heavily furred canine shook out the ratty blankets and pillows which covered the bed, hoping to loosen at least some of the settled dust. The dust did loosen, but he also succeeded in stirring up dust everywhere else in the room, and succumbed to a sneezing fit before he settled down into the bed which barely contained all his bulk and protested mightily against the assault. His dreams were chaotic, and painful, but he did not remember them when he woke the next morning.

Jimson awoke to sunlight prodding his eyelids. It wasn't altogether an unpleasant way to wake up, but he'd gotten to sleep late and his eyes weren't quite ready to open. He forced them anyway, and heaved his great white bulk up off the thin mattress, groaning as his back protested the springs which had dug into it all night. He'd have to find some sort of padding for the bed -- perhaps he could filch an extra mattress from one of the unused rooms. He shook himself, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and gathered his staff, his bow, and his quiver. Time for breakfast. He exited the room, closing the door behind him, and made his way down the stairs and into the lobby.

Table credit Raze.

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