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OOM: Working on the theater with Joly
May. 11th, 2015 04:57 pmAutor checks over his list to see what else needs work in his and Joly's theater. The cavern is almost cozy now, with cushions on the floor and a couple of benches in the back, along with a table off to the side for food strung up with lights.
Autor picks his way across the floor to the 'stage', peering up at where Joly works with the lighting. "How's it going?"
Autor picks his way across the floor to the 'stage', peering up at where Joly works with the lighting. "How's it going?"
(no subject)
Apr. 13th, 2015 01:23 amAutor has decided to do a very stupid thing.
He's flying over the lake from three and a half miles up, a dizzying height. He's done the math before. He knows he'll have roughly 33.90 seconds before impacting the water.
He drinks a potion. And calls, "effugium," shrinking the carpet beneath him, grabbing hold of it before he falls.
The descent is immediate. Icy wind whips in his hair and his stomach rebels. He opens his watering eyes and sees sky, sky, and approaching lake--he knows that if he hits the water, it'll be at roughly 1196.16 kilometers per hour. Adrenaline sings in his veins; he's back on the battlefield, and it feels so good.
Heat sings in his blood and his heart pounds harder in his ears than the rushing wind. His lips and skin chap and his tongue dries out. The fall tears gasps from his smiling mouth.
For 17 seconds--and they move so quickly--he's alive again.
Then his floatation potion wraps a claw around his middle and yanks, a bungie line around him. Autor flops in the sky, descent gradually slowing, disoriented from whiplash.
He floats calmly, the cool wind and the burn in his stomach giving him chills. He's still shaking from the rush, from the thought that if he'd done his math wrong, if he hadn't flown high enough, he could have broken his neck. He could have died.
And Autor laughs.
He's flying over the lake from three and a half miles up, a dizzying height. He's done the math before. He knows he'll have roughly 33.90 seconds before impacting the water.
He drinks a potion. And calls, "effugium," shrinking the carpet beneath him, grabbing hold of it before he falls.
The descent is immediate. Icy wind whips in his hair and his stomach rebels. He opens his watering eyes and sees sky, sky, and approaching lake--he knows that if he hits the water, it'll be at roughly 1196.16 kilometers per hour. Adrenaline sings in his veins; he's back on the battlefield, and it feels so good.
Heat sings in his blood and his heart pounds harder in his ears than the rushing wind. His lips and skin chap and his tongue dries out. The fall tears gasps from his smiling mouth.
For 17 seconds--and they move so quickly--he's alive again.
Then his floatation potion wraps a claw around his middle and yanks, a bungie line around him. Autor flops in the sky, descent gradually slowing, disoriented from whiplash.
He floats calmly, the cool wind and the burn in his stomach giving him chills. He's still shaking from the rush, from the thought that if he'd done his math wrong, if he hadn't flown high enough, he could have broken his neck. He could have died.
And Autor laughs.
Autor's Whiteboard
Jan. 30th, 2015 03:25 pm
| To Do: | Things to Address: | ||||||||||||||
