05-11-2020, 04:47 PM
What is the point of all this digging? What is the point of living forever if it’s in a ruined world?
Several glasses littered the table now, as well as the stubs from spent cigarettes giving work to his idle hands. Muscovites were born such that a tolerance for alcohol was a necessity if a man hoped to do any sort of successful business here, so the glaze of stupor was proving difficult to attain. It was not a state Sören chased often. Even that failure curled displeasure to his lip.
Those words were stuck in his head too, like all his current troubles chose this moment of desired oblivion to parade his failures before him. He flicked some ash from his current smoke and watched the drift of patrons in and out of the bar; from the wash of its garish lights, and into the shadows that cloaked him on the outside table. None sought to join him in his vigil, though the hard planes of his expression did not particularly invite the trespass. He watched people often, though usually with more surreptitious a flare. Either way he rarely saw a world worth saving.
At that thought a grunt of derision vibrated his throat. The first form of a terrible idea, stemmed from a desire he knew better than to indulge. So he was drunk enough to recognise its stupidity, but not so sobre as to pluck the urge free from his skull.
Balancing the cigarette a moment between his lips, he pulled his wallet into his palm. The eye was still quiet in its cavity; he didn’t even want to think about it, let alone risk Paragon’s taint touching this call. He thumbed through the contacts before he finally hovered on one, paused, then set it to call. He lay the wallet on the table, smoke curling from his lips as he watched it ring.
It rang a long time, in fact, but no one picked up.
Sören watched the screen darken, jaw tight, and called for another drink.
Several glasses littered the table now, as well as the stubs from spent cigarettes giving work to his idle hands. Muscovites were born such that a tolerance for alcohol was a necessity if a man hoped to do any sort of successful business here, so the glaze of stupor was proving difficult to attain. It was not a state Sören chased often. Even that failure curled displeasure to his lip.
Those words were stuck in his head too, like all his current troubles chose this moment of desired oblivion to parade his failures before him. He flicked some ash from his current smoke and watched the drift of patrons in and out of the bar; from the wash of its garish lights, and into the shadows that cloaked him on the outside table. None sought to join him in his vigil, though the hard planes of his expression did not particularly invite the trespass. He watched people often, though usually with more surreptitious a flare. Either way he rarely saw a world worth saving.
At that thought a grunt of derision vibrated his throat. The first form of a terrible idea, stemmed from a desire he knew better than to indulge. So he was drunk enough to recognise its stupidity, but not so sobre as to pluck the urge free from his skull.
Balancing the cigarette a moment between his lips, he pulled his wallet into his palm. The eye was still quiet in its cavity; he didn’t even want to think about it, let alone risk Paragon’s taint touching this call. He thumbed through the contacts before he finally hovered on one, paused, then set it to call. He lay the wallet on the table, smoke curling from his lips as he watched it ring.
It rang a long time, in fact, but no one picked up.
Sören watched the screen darken, jaw tight, and called for another drink.
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)