Going Nowhere: Warming Up

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Sometimes you need a "warm up" to get your brain thinking and your fingers moving. Random go-nowhere, means nothing, random post that gets your muse started so you may post better posts elsewhere. When you need a warm up, post something. A roleplay post for any character, any scene, any plots. ANYTHING. Three sentences. Ten pages. Whatever gets you thinking. You do not respond to other posts, just type away until that brain is awake and you're ready to go!
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+With a gentle, silent spinning motion, I place my palm and fingertips on the breastplate of the stunned Royal Guard+
As I said before, in this life or the next, never again will you cross my path... So move...
+Like a paper doll, my fingers sink into the armor and cold skin underneath, clutching her heart and stopping it's annoying, rythmatic pulsing+
There was no escape. Even in a more or less open area the young man felt trapped and confined. As his mind drifted back to the events that now seemed like over powering monoliths of his past, he felt a light tug at his sleeve. A young boy, of about 12, stood wide eyed with an inquiring expression.

"Aren't you getting on?" he said motioning towards the train

Tomas was thrust back into his reality, as his eyes came into focus and landed on the boy.

"Yea, my bad, sorry for the hold up" he said boarding the train, shooting a rushed "Please excuse me" look at the boys mother. Why was he always drifting off like that? Sooner or later it was going to get him in trouble, like say if he was behind the wheel of a car or using heavy equipment.

Tomas walked to the back of the Train, finding an unoccupied seat near to a window. He hadn't planed on staying awake much into the ride, the small flask in his coat pocket would make sure of that. Out side the window was gray and windy, while the cloudy sky contrasted with the bright green grass on the hills, Tomas took a long swig from the flask, biting his lip only slightly as the strong drink hit his stomach.

Five hours, he thought, only five hours and he would be able to put an end to this whole mess. In his shirt pocket was a picture of a girl and a single bullet. Tucked in his waist was a 38 caliber revolver, in case they caught up to him before he could get to her.....at least then he would have an easy way out.
Another painful pulse wracked his body, the dreadful heartbeat of the chaotic energies he attempted to control. Around him and through him it rushed, the jagged intertwining scars along his body opening to reveal searching yellow eyes amidst roiling, living black. Before him in the Mould he had erected days before in preparation wisps of energy, vaporous and liquid coalesced in response to his will, shaping and hardening. Gritting his teeth as the raving tide attempted to backlash against his commend, Fiction stifled a retched moan that clawing for attention in his throat. The movement of those watery amber orbs arrayed within his pale flesh quickened as the critical moment neared, all turning toward the Mould simultaneously as a darkling form slowly solidified.

Only when what little light there was in the room glistened against its sharpened edge did he release his hold, the overwhelming miasma around him sinking away, the eyes slowly closing and sinking back behind their façade of damaged flesh. Within the Mould his creation sat, a gloomy black blade, long and single-edged. Around it clung a residual stain of chaos, a mark forever telling of its origin. Reaching out with trembling fingers, Fiction took up the virgin weapon, his reflection warped and twisted as he ran his thumb along its length. A brief smile played across his lips, fleeing instantly as he noted the myriad cracks spreading along its supple expanse.

With a cry he flung the blade away, heading for cover behind the standing Mould, just in time as a shattering CRACK and monstrous explosion rocked the room. For a long moment he remained motionless, searching with eyes that looked beyond for what had been and, finding only a fading residual cloud, he stood. A shallow crater, burned black at the edges, was all that remained of his attempt to hone chaos into a still form. Sighing, Fiction stepped around the Mould, unsurprised at its current half-melted state. His body ached, his careful planning blown to hell from a single mistake. All that pain for nothing.

"Such is the way of Chaos," he murmured softly, ignoring the protests of body and mind as he preparing a new weave in order to fix the damage to his laboratory.