France

Oct. 30th, 2012 02:09 am
alittlesweptup: (mmmhmmm)
[personal profile] alittlesweptup
The intention behind taking a train had been a good one. Theoretically, it could have been less cramped than a plane - certainly less so than the tiny puddle jumper they'd taken back from Syria when his leg had been in a massive cast and he'd been choking down enough pain killers to knock out an elephant. A shame then that the reality of travel by train isn't nearly so roomy as the idea of it; not even an hour out of London and Charlie can feel his leg starting to cramp up in the narrow space between his seat and the row in front of them.

His bag is in the overhead storage. He has spent the last twenty minutes mentally going through the steps to get to his duffel, or more specifically in the end pocket where he packed a bottle of prescription percocet. It goes like this: he will get his cane under him, grab hold of the seat in front of him and lever himself to his feet (apologizing profusely to the elderly woman sitting in front of him), then brace himself off both the cane and a hand hold on the edge of the overhead-- It's a slowly tipping scale between the pain in his leg and the effort it would take to get his medication, one that right now doesn't seem worth the effort. Not yet.

And sure he could lean over, touch Chloe's arm and ask her to just pull down the bag for him. It would take her half a minute to haul the damn thing down. But that isn't how he wants to start this trip, so to hell with it.
totallytrustworthy: (Default)
[personal profile] totallytrustworthy
The Order isn't always active, in truth, they rarely ever have to be. Marlowe's sharp enough to keep the gears turning cleanly-- so much so that barely anyone else has to lift a finger unless she tells them to. While a lack of pressure in any other workplace might lead to laziness, the cult is far from it, and even the dullest of days are dedicated to study or training (which often is far worse than the usual mission or odd job) particularly when it comes to her personal projects: Talbot and Chloe. 

Still, they've picked up a few new souls as of late, and the heart of the London Underground is a little less quiet than usual, full of recruits getting their bearings after qualifying for the correct clearance. It's not a nuisance by normal standards, but to Chloe-- currently jotting down notes on Babylonian constellations from a few tablet fragments, hoping to unearth just a bit more on the divination techniques they'd used-- the chatter and scuffing of shoes on stone is nails against a chalkboard. She inhales a deep, steady breath, presses her lips into a thin line and puts her pen down against the paper for another go. Patience without losing her temper is a technique Marlowe's still attempting to pass on. Particularly when dealing with people she'd consider less than important. Particularly when she's busy.
 

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THE FORGE OF SOULS; a musebox

February 2013

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