Ψiioniic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
xanthous) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thechanged2013-09-04 06:02 pm
xanthous) wrote in thechanged2013-09-04 06:02 pm
Entry tags:
so little to do, too much damn time | day four, late evening, open
This has to be one of the worst things to happen to him in recent memory. He doesn't have many memories to compare this to, but that's not important. What is important is that he doesn't have a damn thing to do.
He's going to go insane, at this rate.
He doesn't have a purpose right now. Nobody's dead, nobody's dying, and it certainly doesn't seem like anyone's going to be dying any time soon, which is unfortunate and irritating. This lack of death has left him with far too much free time that he doesn't know how to spend. Currently he's spending his time sitting on stairs in the Great Hall, knees drawn up to his chest as stares out glumly. He's been sitting there for longer than he'd like to admit, with a curtain wrapped around his shoulders and covering him almost entirely. A part of him loathes having to resort to using a curtain as a blanket - but it's better than some unobservant moron not noticing he's there because he blends into the surroundings.
So he sits there and he frowns, and after a while - hours - he starts to grow restless, and he begins to methodically tear strips from the curtain. There's no purpose to it, but he's going to do it anyways and anyone who waltzes through the Great Hall will see him laying the strips out on the steps and might even have one shoved into their hands if they get close enough.
He's going to go insane, at this rate.
He doesn't have a purpose right now. Nobody's dead, nobody's dying, and it certainly doesn't seem like anyone's going to be dying any time soon, which is unfortunate and irritating. This lack of death has left him with far too much free time that he doesn't know how to spend. Currently he's spending his time sitting on stairs in the Great Hall, knees drawn up to his chest as stares out glumly. He's been sitting there for longer than he'd like to admit, with a curtain wrapped around his shoulders and covering him almost entirely. A part of him loathes having to resort to using a curtain as a blanket - but it's better than some unobservant moron not noticing he's there because he blends into the surroundings.
So he sits there and he frowns, and after a while - hours - he starts to grow restless, and he begins to methodically tear strips from the curtain. There's no purpose to it, but he's going to do it anyways and anyone who waltzes through the Great Hall will see him laying the strips out on the steps and might even have one shoved into their hands if they get close enough.
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