01-10-2015, 03:05 PM
[[In response to Off Course]]
Snow fell silently. Moscow was a city that never truly slept, which - for a man who found such release difficult to come by himself - should have made for a welcome habitat. Instead, tonight at least, it only made for a gaudy prison. Sören stood not far from the street he had stalked the girl, blowing smoke into the neon lights of raucous night life. He didn't smoke, at least not usually, but it was a decent excuse for what might otherwise be seen as loitering. If the cigarettes rotted his lungs from the inside out, he was certain it would not be the thing to kill him, thus it was only one more way he diced with the destiny the runes had dealt him, and dared it to prove him wrong.
He had plenty of money to procure decent accommodation, and he visited Moscow frequently enough to know where to find it, but the idea of sleep was distant. His episode with the police officer rankled; or, more succinctly, his loss of the ring that should be his by right. It took every fibre of self-control not to slip to the hospital the girl lay in, but with Sarkozy knowing what he was the risk was too great, and he had no-one to send in his place. Instead Sören swallowed the poison of defeat -- or scowled over it anyway -- and waited for rational thought to calm the indignation. To conjecture a way to rectify this mess.
His Wallet buzzed in his pocket, something he was initially tempted to ignore, but business was business. He could do with something new to sharpen his mind upon, before past failures began to gnaw away at his patience. Declan Gregory, a man he knew through his connections with the British Museum, flashed up on the screen. A finger swiped to answer, the cigarette dropped and crushed to sizzle briefly in a bed of ice. Banal pleasantries proceeded the meat of the conversation. They'd been friends a long time; turned out this was the perfect of example of how such things could be useful. It might be a good idea to get out of Moscow anyhow.
Edited by Soren, Jan 11 2015, 08:02 AM.
Snow fell silently. Moscow was a city that never truly slept, which - for a man who found such release difficult to come by himself - should have made for a welcome habitat. Instead, tonight at least, it only made for a gaudy prison. Sören stood not far from the street he had stalked the girl, blowing smoke into the neon lights of raucous night life. He didn't smoke, at least not usually, but it was a decent excuse for what might otherwise be seen as loitering. If the cigarettes rotted his lungs from the inside out, he was certain it would not be the thing to kill him, thus it was only one more way he diced with the destiny the runes had dealt him, and dared it to prove him wrong.
He had plenty of money to procure decent accommodation, and he visited Moscow frequently enough to know where to find it, but the idea of sleep was distant. His episode with the police officer rankled; or, more succinctly, his loss of the ring that should be his by right. It took every fibre of self-control not to slip to the hospital the girl lay in, but with Sarkozy knowing what he was the risk was too great, and he had no-one to send in his place. Instead Sören swallowed the poison of defeat -- or scowled over it anyway -- and waited for rational thought to calm the indignation. To conjecture a way to rectify this mess.
His Wallet buzzed in his pocket, something he was initially tempted to ignore, but business was business. He could do with something new to sharpen his mind upon, before past failures began to gnaw away at his patience. Declan Gregory, a man he knew through his connections with the British Museum, flashed up on the screen. A finger swiped to answer, the cigarette dropped and crushed to sizzle briefly in a bed of ice. Banal pleasantries proceeded the meat of the conversation. They'd been friends a long time; turned out this was the perfect of example of how such things could be useful. It might be a good idea to get out of Moscow anyhow.
Edited by Soren, Jan 11 2015, 08:02 AM.
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