WRITING Moody's Random Tidbits

Discussion in 'SHOWCASING' started by The Mood is Write, Mar 1, 2016.

  1. A yawn too big for his young face stretched chapped lips until he felt the tug of flesh pulling apart. He licked at the blood, then rubbed at one eye with the heel of his hand. Blood. He was used to tasting it at the back of his mouth, but not along the cleft of his tongue like this. Slowly, brown eyes blinked as his vision blurred in and out of focus. What time was it now? Those same eyes roved the room, and he grabbed hold of a small desk clock. The thinnest hand remained still. It could be any hour, in this candle-lit study, and the warlock had no idea how many new candle stubs he'd added to the bin since waking.

    Vinziek dropped the clock and ran his hand across his face. His own icy fingers made him pause as he tried to figure out if the room was cold, or if he'd forgotten to eat again.

    Too much trouble. He slapped his cheeks, then stood, only to stop moving abruptly as a cacophony of bone-grinding cracks. Torn between pain and relief, he stood in place, half-crouched with his hands rested firmly against the desk. He tilted his head one way, and collapsed to the chair as more cracks filled the room. He swore with a hoarse voice and tilted his head the other way and sat in place for several moments, pondering whether he felt pained or relieved before he stood and looked around for his bedding. He'd set it up somewhere in this place, but...

    Was that it, under the pile of books?

    He absently scratched his neck and coughed, then pulled his hand away to find blood.

    Just how long would it be before those strangers returned, so he could complete his research? That thought teased at his mind as he looked for a place to lose consciousness. A few moments of useless staring, and he got an idea.

    Carefully, he began to move his books. There was one about necromancy, one about home gardening, one filled with nothing but crochet patterns, and another filled with the scribbles of a madman. Each of the books, he shoved onto his chair and wherever else he might set them where the bindings would remain intact. It took very little time, but in the end, his bed became the only place not liberally filled with books. There were very few places where the floor was visible, and fewer places where the walls could be seen.

    He collapsed onto the bed and before he could remove his shoes, he closed his eyes.

    Blood seeped from the re-opened scar onto his neck, and from the corner of his mouth as he slowly curled around his moldy straw pillow. "Come soon, heroes..." He wheezed as he waited for the wound to knit. He expected none heard the whimpered request.