11-04-2008, 12:51 AM
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He had cut west from Inferni, traveling at an even pace as the snow continued to stagger from the sky. It had not yet begun to stick to the ground, but it would soon. That alone was enough to get him ready to prepare for winter. As of yet, he had not found Laruku. He had not, in truth, looked for him. Jasper was wallowing in self-misery, blaming himself for the sickness and the absence of his lover. Everyone else was gone. They always go away, that familiar voice said, half-sympathetic, half-taunting.
“Why don’t you shut the hell up,” he replied, not realizing he had done so. Crossing through a rusted iron gate, Ahren made his way through the dying wildflowers and tall grass. This place had become a favorite of his, if only for the necessity of finding his addiction. The tobacco here was plentiful, though uncultivated, but he planned to change that come spring. For now, though, getting his supplies and heading back to the forest where he had been living was all that mattered.
Coming up to his selected harvest, Ahren drew the knife from his side. In the gray no-light, it twinkled dully. It was as sharp as ever, and cut through the tobacco like nothing. Do you think you should kill him? The ambiguous question could have been meant for two people, and so Ahren frowned and his ears folded back. He continued cutting the tobacco until the noise came again. Well?
“Not yet,” he finally responded, which seemed to satisfy the voice (his conscious? He didn’t know anymore) for the time being.
He had cut west from Inferni, traveling at an even pace as the snow continued to stagger from the sky. It had not yet begun to stick to the ground, but it would soon. That alone was enough to get him ready to prepare for winter. As of yet, he had not found Laruku. He had not, in truth, looked for him. Jasper was wallowing in self-misery, blaming himself for the sickness and the absence of his lover. Everyone else was gone. They always go away, that familiar voice said, half-sympathetic, half-taunting.
“Why don’t you shut the hell up,” he replied, not realizing he had done so. Crossing through a rusted iron gate, Ahren made his way through the dying wildflowers and tall grass. This place had become a favorite of his, if only for the necessity of finding his addiction. The tobacco here was plentiful, though uncultivated, but he planned to change that come spring. For now, though, getting his supplies and heading back to the forest where he had been living was all that mattered.
Coming up to his selected harvest, Ahren drew the knife from his side. In the gray no-light, it twinkled dully. It was as sharp as ever, and cut through the tobacco like nothing. Do you think you should kill him? The ambiguous question could have been meant for two people, and so Ahren frowned and his ears folded back. He continued cutting the tobacco until the noise came again. Well?
“Not yet,” he finally responded, which seemed to satisfy the voice (his conscious? He didn’t know anymore) for the time being.