Inkfinger
06-30-08, 08:07 PM
It was raining. Again.
Somehow, this didn't surprise Cael.
It always rained, every time he set foot on new soil. It was as if he'd angered (ok, maybe not angered, maybe more like mildly annoyed) the weather gods of the entire world. Not permanently angered, mind - not in the range of lightening bolts - just enough that said world followed him with rainclouds.
He sped up between awnings and roofs, ducking into doorways, but by the time he reached his destination he was soaked; hair sticking to his forehead, clothes clinging uncomfortably in places where he'd really rather not have them stick.
He hovered outside the door of the shop, attempting to finger-comb his hair into some semblance of order and pry the offending garments from his limbs at the same time. A quick glance at the nearest puddle seemed to indicate that this preening was a complete lost cause.
He grimaced at his reflection, and shoved the door to the shop open.
It was warm (and, more importantly, dry) inside the shop, and Cael paused once more, right inside the door, to shake the worst of the wet from his clothing and hair. He took an experimental sniff at the air - smelling a mishmash of leather and paper and wax and spices - before deciding that this, probably, would not result in a head-cold.
Maybe, he amended, thoughts tinged with cynicism.
He reached into the inner flap of his jacket, sliding a folded scrap of butcher paper and an intricately folded dragon out of a pocket. He set the dragon on the floor, and set about unfolding the bit of butcher paper.
"Poke around a bit," He murmured, working at the damp, ink-spotted paper, seemingly speaking to himself. "See if you can't find anything noteworthy, and avoid the puddles. You're a right pain to fold when you're a dragon, y'know that?"
There was a rustle of paper and he glanced down in time to catch the words "Tell you what to fold..." float across the dragon's mouth before the four-inch-long paper creation trundled off under a shelf. Cael just shook his head.
"Cheeky."
Butcher-paper successfully unfolded and showing a long list of items, muttering against grumpy old men who wanted every single detail of where their money was going, Cael gave his hair one last shake, and ventured deeper into the store.
Ink Magic Books (preferably intact though bits missing is ok, I guess? Right? As long as it's still readable?)
New backpack. (Old one in tatters. Unacceptable. Books getting damp. Mildew smell wreaking havoc with nose.)
Beginners Guide to Polearms (if such a thing exists? Must be attempted in case of...emergencies.)
Practice weapon. Preferably that works. (Note: remember which end to pick up this time, idiot)
He looked at his list for a second, scowling, before pulling one of his normal pens out. He put a careful, deliberately thick line through 'emergencies' and wrote 'life' over the scribble. Seemed fitting, given the ways it had found to try and kill him lately. He took one more step into the store.
"'ello?"
Somehow, this didn't surprise Cael.
It always rained, every time he set foot on new soil. It was as if he'd angered (ok, maybe not angered, maybe more like mildly annoyed) the weather gods of the entire world. Not permanently angered, mind - not in the range of lightening bolts - just enough that said world followed him with rainclouds.
He sped up between awnings and roofs, ducking into doorways, but by the time he reached his destination he was soaked; hair sticking to his forehead, clothes clinging uncomfortably in places where he'd really rather not have them stick.
He hovered outside the door of the shop, attempting to finger-comb his hair into some semblance of order and pry the offending garments from his limbs at the same time. A quick glance at the nearest puddle seemed to indicate that this preening was a complete lost cause.
He grimaced at his reflection, and shoved the door to the shop open.
It was warm (and, more importantly, dry) inside the shop, and Cael paused once more, right inside the door, to shake the worst of the wet from his clothing and hair. He took an experimental sniff at the air - smelling a mishmash of leather and paper and wax and spices - before deciding that this, probably, would not result in a head-cold.
Maybe, he amended, thoughts tinged with cynicism.
He reached into the inner flap of his jacket, sliding a folded scrap of butcher paper and an intricately folded dragon out of a pocket. He set the dragon on the floor, and set about unfolding the bit of butcher paper.
"Poke around a bit," He murmured, working at the damp, ink-spotted paper, seemingly speaking to himself. "See if you can't find anything noteworthy, and avoid the puddles. You're a right pain to fold when you're a dragon, y'know that?"
There was a rustle of paper and he glanced down in time to catch the words "Tell you what to fold..." float across the dragon's mouth before the four-inch-long paper creation trundled off under a shelf. Cael just shook his head.
"Cheeky."
Butcher-paper successfully unfolded and showing a long list of items, muttering against grumpy old men who wanted every single detail of where their money was going, Cael gave his hair one last shake, and ventured deeper into the store.
Ink Magic Books (preferably intact though bits missing is ok, I guess? Right? As long as it's still readable?)
New backpack. (Old one in tatters. Unacceptable. Books getting damp. Mildew smell wreaking havoc with nose.)
Beginners Guide to Polearms (if such a thing exists? Must be attempted in case of...emergencies.)
Practice weapon. Preferably that works. (Note: remember which end to pick up this time, idiot)
He looked at his list for a second, scowling, before pulling one of his normal pens out. He put a careful, deliberately thick line through 'emergencies' and wrote 'life' over the scribble. Seemed fitting, given the ways it had found to try and kill him lately. He took one more step into the store.
"'ello?"