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gobble gobble . 27th metal
Sep. 21st, 2013 06:21 pm[ GENERAL: DAY
He slips through the crowds, among them but not touched by them, his panther daemon pacing patiently by his side. He checks with his contacts and listens to how the world is moving, what people are saying, what they are thinking. He skirts the market and the docks, dipping into them to pause on the quay and watch the water move. He's scouting.
NIGHT: HUNTING
At night, at dusk and dawn, it's different. He's hunting. He paces up and down the darkest alleys and the edges of the world. He looks for children. Sometimes he does this with his sister. Together, they never come home empty-handed.
CHURCH
He drifts to different churches, preferring the larger ones or the cathedral, with broad stained glass and deep shadows and air streaming with dust. Not Dust, of course; this is just the ordinary kind, but when Zane kneels, when he bows his head, he imagines that it is the other sort, that it is sin that sparkles in the air around him, sin that he breathes in, sin that illuminates the shafts of color from the stained glass.
Here, he prays, fervently, straining for even a hint of the Authority's voice. Riona paces patiently beside him, and watches, ever-attentive, when his eyes are closed and he has no more will to watch for himself.
He stays in here too long, in the near-emptiness, as handfuls of worshippers drift in and out.
THE PARTIES OF THE RICH
But he is, after all, a member of the society of Oxford. His isn't just to hunt, and to listen to informants on the street. Sometimes, what one hears in a party is a thousand times more important.
So at the events of the rich, of the high-class, he can be found in rich and fine clothes, a glass of drink in his hand, dancing and conversing and making connections as is demanded of him.
He thinks of this as another mask.
AT HOME
After dawn, he returns home, perhaps after sweeping up another child in the net of captives, perhaps empty-handed. He slips into the narrow apartment that he holds on his own, though his father owns other places in the building. His daemon steps up on a couch by the window, and Zane is hard-pressed, always, to stay away from the knives perpetually laid out on the table.
OTHER
Write me a thing, we'll do a thing. ]
He slips through the crowds, among them but not touched by them, his panther daemon pacing patiently by his side. He checks with his contacts and listens to how the world is moving, what people are saying, what they are thinking. He skirts the market and the docks, dipping into them to pause on the quay and watch the water move. He's scouting.
NIGHT: HUNTING
At night, at dusk and dawn, it's different. He's hunting. He paces up and down the darkest alleys and the edges of the world. He looks for children. Sometimes he does this with his sister. Together, they never come home empty-handed.
CHURCH
He drifts to different churches, preferring the larger ones or the cathedral, with broad stained glass and deep shadows and air streaming with dust. Not Dust, of course; this is just the ordinary kind, but when Zane kneels, when he bows his head, he imagines that it is the other sort, that it is sin that sparkles in the air around him, sin that he breathes in, sin that illuminates the shafts of color from the stained glass.
Here, he prays, fervently, straining for even a hint of the Authority's voice. Riona paces patiently beside him, and watches, ever-attentive, when his eyes are closed and he has no more will to watch for himself.
He stays in here too long, in the near-emptiness, as handfuls of worshippers drift in and out.
THE PARTIES OF THE RICH
But he is, after all, a member of the society of Oxford. His isn't just to hunt, and to listen to informants on the street. Sometimes, what one hears in a party is a thousand times more important.
So at the events of the rich, of the high-class, he can be found in rich and fine clothes, a glass of drink in his hand, dancing and conversing and making connections as is demanded of him.
He thinks of this as another mask.
AT HOME
After dawn, he returns home, perhaps after sweeping up another child in the net of captives, perhaps empty-handed. He slips into the narrow apartment that he holds on his own, though his father owns other places in the building. His daemon steps up on a couch by the window, and Zane is hard-pressed, always, to stay away from the knives perpetually laid out on the table.
OTHER
Write me a thing, we'll do a thing. ]