Little defeats for the little soldier.
Posted: December 8th, 2022, 1:32 am
1347, Old-Town District, First Province.
THE MUSEUM steps were firm under him, and that was a comfort for if there was one thing Jahandar dreaded it was going up and down stairs. Entering homes and searching for contraband on patrol had been one of the worst experiences of his life; too many men stepped directly into fiery explosions.
Distracted by the intrusive memory, before he realized it he was standing in front of the table in the records room – in front of the man he had come to see, and another rather unexpected guest. Immediately being seized by tension, he determined to mutter his way through the conversation. He had come here looking for a way to make money, but he internally vowed to turn it into a productive opportunity.
The conversation was rather humdrum in the basement, and soon Jahandar felt the tug in his lungs that told him it was time for a cigarette. Muzzling himself with a rich Foundry-Select cigarette, the troupe soon moved to the main, first floor of the recently renovated Museum. That was when Jahandar noticed the peculiar glint in Atticus’ eye.
The man raised more questions than answers, Jahandar figured. He would likely never know the truth, but he had particular suspicions towards the man. These were doubled by the presence of the third member of the scholarly meeting. Considering all these things, as well as all the others, had flooded his mind and something inside screamed at him to get out.
Excusing himself without too much incident and escaping into the bathroom, he sped to the mirror. Clawing fingers peeled his eyes open, and they looked well enough. Well enough that he could afford to balance himself out. Patting his jacket for the hauntingly familiar bottle of pills, he peeled it open. He wasn’t certain how many were in it–only that it was above a certain level, and that was about half.
Before half-way down, all was well. There would be plenty of time to see Doctor sludge for a refill, or Constantine, or any other doctor he could make himself available to. He winced at that thought, hatefully locking eyes with his reflection. He could not imagine a worse position for himself to be in, and that was it’s own small horror.
Staring down the man in the mirror didn’t seem to change anything. He was starting to feel -it- in his center mass, and that was a relief—but, the man in the mirror remained. It was time to face the music; the daily attempts on his and his brother’s life were making him war-weary. How he dreamed of a peaceful dinner with his family. How he ached when he realized that was just as well to be a dream, for he would be fortunate to see it realized.
Rejoined to the others, the conversation waxed and waned in that cumbersome way it does when there is something unspoken in the room. The only trouble, Jahandar figured, was the issue of not knowing which unspoken thing occupied each of their minds. There was far too much unspeakable in his life, and far too little to relish with friends.
Too little God, too. He struggled daily to keep the faith–hours in prayer and studying holy manuscripts did little to quell the overwhelming horror of it all.
LOSING himself in his mind as the conversation occurred around him, as he often did, he considered that there was no need to cry; there was no need to beg. This was the waking world in which he lived. Accepting it was the first step to conquering it—he had conquered so many things. He had conquered the Venerated Legion itself, for his brother.
But the struggles and triumphs recently in his life left him empty and unsatisfied. It was no way to live–and yet he had to endure it. Someone, it seemed, had to live this way. The powers that be in heaven, on high, had decided it to be Jahandar long ago.
Departing the dreadful social situation was its own struggle, one which Jahandar found himself dissatisfied with his handling of. Another point of contention to occupy his mind on what was surely winding up to being a sleepless night. Stepping out into the sharp Frostmarch air was a relief.
The cold air hitting his lungs filled him with life, grounding him in the moment and energizing himself to make his way back to the Bistro as the heaviest effects of the painkillers began to seat itself in him.
Slipping into the back entrance, he had exchanged a mumbled courtesy to Hailey. He slid down onto the stool at the end of the bar and began to study the ripples of the massive curtains that divided the room.
Considerations tugging at him, he plucked one of his “special blend” cigarettes free from the paper pack and lit it swiftly, inhaling the aromatic smoke with a tingle of burning relief. Burning distraction.
Determining to engage in useful introspection, he propped himself up on the stool and studied the materials of the canvas curtain as Hailey continued to clean glasses. This was a good enough salve for the wounds of the day, he figured. The warrior would live to fight another day. But his strength still seemed to grow dimmer as time marched on. Hopefully, he thought, the salve will hold.
THE MUSEUM steps were firm under him, and that was a comfort for if there was one thing Jahandar dreaded it was going up and down stairs. Entering homes and searching for contraband on patrol had been one of the worst experiences of his life; too many men stepped directly into fiery explosions.
Distracted by the intrusive memory, before he realized it he was standing in front of the table in the records room – in front of the man he had come to see, and another rather unexpected guest. Immediately being seized by tension, he determined to mutter his way through the conversation. He had come here looking for a way to make money, but he internally vowed to turn it into a productive opportunity.
The conversation was rather humdrum in the basement, and soon Jahandar felt the tug in his lungs that told him it was time for a cigarette. Muzzling himself with a rich Foundry-Select cigarette, the troupe soon moved to the main, first floor of the recently renovated Museum. That was when Jahandar noticed the peculiar glint in Atticus’ eye.
The man raised more questions than answers, Jahandar figured. He would likely never know the truth, but he had particular suspicions towards the man. These were doubled by the presence of the third member of the scholarly meeting. Considering all these things, as well as all the others, had flooded his mind and something inside screamed at him to get out.
Excusing himself without too much incident and escaping into the bathroom, he sped to the mirror. Clawing fingers peeled his eyes open, and they looked well enough. Well enough that he could afford to balance himself out. Patting his jacket for the hauntingly familiar bottle of pills, he peeled it open. He wasn’t certain how many were in it–only that it was above a certain level, and that was about half.
Before half-way down, all was well. There would be plenty of time to see Doctor sludge for a refill, or Constantine, or any other doctor he could make himself available to. He winced at that thought, hatefully locking eyes with his reflection. He could not imagine a worse position for himself to be in, and that was it’s own small horror.
Staring down the man in the mirror didn’t seem to change anything. He was starting to feel -it- in his center mass, and that was a relief—but, the man in the mirror remained. It was time to face the music; the daily attempts on his and his brother’s life were making him war-weary. How he dreamed of a peaceful dinner with his family. How he ached when he realized that was just as well to be a dream, for he would be fortunate to see it realized.
Rejoined to the others, the conversation waxed and waned in that cumbersome way it does when there is something unspoken in the room. The only trouble, Jahandar figured, was the issue of not knowing which unspoken thing occupied each of their minds. There was far too much unspeakable in his life, and far too little to relish with friends.
Too little God, too. He struggled daily to keep the faith–hours in prayer and studying holy manuscripts did little to quell the overwhelming horror of it all.
LOSING himself in his mind as the conversation occurred around him, as he often did, he considered that there was no need to cry; there was no need to beg. This was the waking world in which he lived. Accepting it was the first step to conquering it—he had conquered so many things. He had conquered the Venerated Legion itself, for his brother.
But the struggles and triumphs recently in his life left him empty and unsatisfied. It was no way to live–and yet he had to endure it. Someone, it seemed, had to live this way. The powers that be in heaven, on high, had decided it to be Jahandar long ago.
Departing the dreadful social situation was its own struggle, one which Jahandar found himself dissatisfied with his handling of. Another point of contention to occupy his mind on what was surely winding up to being a sleepless night. Stepping out into the sharp Frostmarch air was a relief.
The cold air hitting his lungs filled him with life, grounding him in the moment and energizing himself to make his way back to the Bistro as the heaviest effects of the painkillers began to seat itself in him.
Slipping into the back entrance, he had exchanged a mumbled courtesy to Hailey. He slid down onto the stool at the end of the bar and began to study the ripples of the massive curtains that divided the room.
Considerations tugging at him, he plucked one of his “special blend” cigarettes free from the paper pack and lit it swiftly, inhaling the aromatic smoke with a tingle of burning relief. Burning distraction.
Determining to engage in useful introspection, he propped himself up on the stool and studied the materials of the canvas curtain as Hailey continued to clean glasses. This was a good enough salve for the wounds of the day, he figured. The warrior would live to fight another day. But his strength still seemed to grow dimmer as time marched on. Hopefully, he thought, the salve will hold.