Post by Oren James on Sept 11, 2009 21:04:35 GMT -5
She moved slowly, and for once he wasn't aggitated by her lack of conviction. She could have been smiling, but the illumination of bright light surrounding her made it impossible to tell. Dark hair, dark eyes, and the heart shaped outline of her slender face was all he could identify clearly. He moved toward her, or at least he swore he did, but she turned away. His lips moved to form a word, a name, her name; though no sound escaped from the back of his throat. He wanted to reach her, touch her, taste the drift of pollution on her lips again; all if it meant having her back for the one moment. So close, yet so far away. And when she turned as though to say goodbye, he nearly fell back at the slightly slanted eyes and exotic beauty of a face he knew so well, and despised. The woman in control of the government that scorned him...
The sunlight casting through the window directly against his face caused his eyes to squint together in disturbance. As if it wasn't enough to block out the intrusion, he threw his sleeved arm over his forehead and turned towards the edge of his bed, but it was too late to deny reality. His grunt was casual, like a ritual he rehearsed and performed every morning as he drug himself out of bed.
Sitting up brought a rush of disorientation through his temples, forcing him to stagger while trying to maintain balance. Oren felt constricted and tangled in the rustled clothes from the night before that he neglected to change for sleeping, or passing out.
With a move, he brought himself to stand and as his foot tipped the long necked bottle holding half of it's remaining contents, he just as quickly fell back down against his bed. Curses passed through his half opened and chapped lips as he picked up the overturned glass and tipped it against his mouth. The burn against the back of his throat was a familiar friend, one he came to cherish and depend on to make it through each day that passed. Once satisfied, which seemed harder and harder to achieve every morning, he sat the bottle out of his immediate reach and tried again.
This time, it was a success. Apparently standing wasn't such a hard task to master once one got the hang of it. Even though he was more aware and focused than a few moments before, he still had no intentions of changing or even straightening himself up. This routine was something he had become accustomed to doing with his eyes closed.
He moved through the door of his bedroom, disappeared into the bathroom, resurfaced, and trudged his way down the flight of stairs he had laid with his own two hands. Very laboriously, he unbolted the already broken lock from it's clasp on the main door of the shop and moved towards the counter he had set up at the far side of the open room. His own personal gallery of sorts, though mainly crafted hand guns and their counterparts remained on display there.
Oren's idea of cleaning up after a long night of work consisted of picking the pair of metallic goggles off the gun shelves and wrapping them around his head. Exhibits of various rifles, scopes, and accessories to such weapons lined the champagne walls for the customers with the weighty pockets viewing pleasure, though he was hardly ever around to take pride in their fascination or admiration.
Instead, he spent his days near the back end of his shop where the smaller scale machinery helped accomplish his long term goal set by the state. Each day he would take mallet to metal and very careful bend and craft each little piece to the grand scale design he had been working on for the past couple of months.
Business was slow and he rarely had to worry about thieves in this part of Idola. The district was pretty well maintained and consisted of hard working folk like himself. Everyone knew everyone and the local pub was generally the best place to gain knowledge on familia developments or recent news involving the current rebellion against the government. For shop owners like himself, Oren James had too much to lose to be bothering with anything more than his own trade.
[Open to anyone]
The sunlight casting through the window directly against his face caused his eyes to squint together in disturbance. As if it wasn't enough to block out the intrusion, he threw his sleeved arm over his forehead and turned towards the edge of his bed, but it was too late to deny reality. His grunt was casual, like a ritual he rehearsed and performed every morning as he drug himself out of bed.
Sitting up brought a rush of disorientation through his temples, forcing him to stagger while trying to maintain balance. Oren felt constricted and tangled in the rustled clothes from the night before that he neglected to change for sleeping, or passing out.
With a move, he brought himself to stand and as his foot tipped the long necked bottle holding half of it's remaining contents, he just as quickly fell back down against his bed. Curses passed through his half opened and chapped lips as he picked up the overturned glass and tipped it against his mouth. The burn against the back of his throat was a familiar friend, one he came to cherish and depend on to make it through each day that passed. Once satisfied, which seemed harder and harder to achieve every morning, he sat the bottle out of his immediate reach and tried again.
This time, it was a success. Apparently standing wasn't such a hard task to master once one got the hang of it. Even though he was more aware and focused than a few moments before, he still had no intentions of changing or even straightening himself up. This routine was something he had become accustomed to doing with his eyes closed.
He moved through the door of his bedroom, disappeared into the bathroom, resurfaced, and trudged his way down the flight of stairs he had laid with his own two hands. Very laboriously, he unbolted the already broken lock from it's clasp on the main door of the shop and moved towards the counter he had set up at the far side of the open room. His own personal gallery of sorts, though mainly crafted hand guns and their counterparts remained on display there.
Oren's idea of cleaning up after a long night of work consisted of picking the pair of metallic goggles off the gun shelves and wrapping them around his head. Exhibits of various rifles, scopes, and accessories to such weapons lined the champagne walls for the customers with the weighty pockets viewing pleasure, though he was hardly ever around to take pride in their fascination or admiration.
Instead, he spent his days near the back end of his shop where the smaller scale machinery helped accomplish his long term goal set by the state. Each day he would take mallet to metal and very careful bend and craft each little piece to the grand scale design he had been working on for the past couple of months.
Business was slow and he rarely had to worry about thieves in this part of Idola. The district was pretty well maintained and consisted of hard working folk like himself. Everyone knew everyone and the local pub was generally the best place to gain knowledge on familia developments or recent news involving the current rebellion against the government. For shop owners like himself, Oren James had too much to lose to be bothering with anything more than his own trade.
[Open to anyone]