10-06-2016, 07:03 PM
The wall rang. Jaxen spied the sender and considered ignoring the call. In the end, he activated the feed and the video sprang to life. "Hi mom,"
he said and stood in front of the bed to block the array of clothes laid out behind him.
His mother was a beautiful woman even at her age. Having bore a number of children, and Jaxen the youngest, she had her years on her, but she wore them like a gilded swan. Her dark hair curled softly upon her shoulders. Her deep eyes were caverns that pierced straight to his heart. She could always see through him. Jaxen said that she was the only person alive that could know when he was truly drunk.
"Jaxen, I see you bought a plane ticket. Why are you going west?"
He figured she'd be alerted by the purchase. Not that money meant anything to her, but it may seem odd. Jaxen rarely traveled to western europe. He disliked the region. "I thought I'd do a little sight-seeing before the world goes to hell."
She didn't buy it, but either she didn't care or she knew the real truth. Scion probably shared with his ex-wife the nature of Jaxen's extracurricular activities. No doubt she didn't approve. "Alright son, but you be safe and do not end up in jail. I don't like Ireland any more than you do, and I do not want to fly out there to get you."
Jaxen smiled, "Of course, mother."
He closed the screen and finished packing.
The flight was so freaking boring. He hated airplanes. Unless he was the pilot. He once took lessons for six months just so he could steal a small private jet out of a hanger. Now that had been a fun trip. But flying commercial from Moscow to Dublin was almost not worth any sword of Nuada, even if it was made of light.
Honestly, he'd never been to Ireland, or what was left of Ireland after the CCD swallowed it. Except for the name, when he landed in Dublin, it didn't seem that different than what he imagined. Except the air seemed to stink. Weird smells. Grassy. And like sheep shit. Or maybe that was all in his head. Neither did he like beer. He preferred vodka, like a good Russian. The accent was atrocious. He felt like they spoke a foreign language. Seemed everyone else thought the same of him. He had to say the name of his hotel three times to the cab driver before he understood. Jaxen, in no mood to deal with translating from English to jibberish or whatever they spoke in this city, rolled his eyes and all but fell asleep in the back seat of the cab on the way in. The hotel was in downtown Dublin.
When they arrived, he entered a hotel that looked like it was a former fortress. Unlike castles as one pictured in their mind, this was not as cool as that. The walls were stone alright. The doors heavy. The lighting poor. The toilets tiny. The beds uncomfortable. He was about to turn around and go find a real hotel when he caught a flash of a dark-haired woman at the check-in desk. She wore a snug pencil skirt, high heels and a button-down blouse that seemed about to burst at the bust.
He promptly waltzed straight to the desk, scrubbed a hand through his hair and waited in line behind her, not at all minding the wait.
he said and stood in front of the bed to block the array of clothes laid out behind him.
His mother was a beautiful woman even at her age. Having bore a number of children, and Jaxen the youngest, she had her years on her, but she wore them like a gilded swan. Her dark hair curled softly upon her shoulders. Her deep eyes were caverns that pierced straight to his heart. She could always see through him. Jaxen said that she was the only person alive that could know when he was truly drunk.
"Jaxen, I see you bought a plane ticket. Why are you going west?"
He figured she'd be alerted by the purchase. Not that money meant anything to her, but it may seem odd. Jaxen rarely traveled to western europe. He disliked the region. "I thought I'd do a little sight-seeing before the world goes to hell."
She didn't buy it, but either she didn't care or she knew the real truth. Scion probably shared with his ex-wife the nature of Jaxen's extracurricular activities. No doubt she didn't approve. "Alright son, but you be safe and do not end up in jail. I don't like Ireland any more than you do, and I do not want to fly out there to get you."
Jaxen smiled, "Of course, mother."
He closed the screen and finished packing.
The flight was so freaking boring. He hated airplanes. Unless he was the pilot. He once took lessons for six months just so he could steal a small private jet out of a hanger. Now that had been a fun trip. But flying commercial from Moscow to Dublin was almost not worth any sword of Nuada, even if it was made of light.
Honestly, he'd never been to Ireland, or what was left of Ireland after the CCD swallowed it. Except for the name, when he landed in Dublin, it didn't seem that different than what he imagined. Except the air seemed to stink. Weird smells. Grassy. And like sheep shit. Or maybe that was all in his head. Neither did he like beer. He preferred vodka, like a good Russian. The accent was atrocious. He felt like they spoke a foreign language. Seemed everyone else thought the same of him. He had to say the name of his hotel three times to the cab driver before he understood. Jaxen, in no mood to deal with translating from English to jibberish or whatever they spoke in this city, rolled his eyes and all but fell asleep in the back seat of the cab on the way in. The hotel was in downtown Dublin.
When they arrived, he entered a hotel that looked like it was a former fortress. Unlike castles as one pictured in their mind, this was not as cool as that. The walls were stone alright. The doors heavy. The lighting poor. The toilets tiny. The beds uncomfortable. He was about to turn around and go find a real hotel when he caught a flash of a dark-haired woman at the check-in desk. She wore a snug pencil skirt, high heels and a button-down blouse that seemed about to burst at the bust.
He promptly waltzed straight to the desk, scrubbed a hand through his hair and waited in line behind her, not at all minding the wait.