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sixthiterationlogs2017-02-07 10:44 am
warriorborn) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-02-07 10:44 am
(no subject)
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: February 7, midafternoon
OPEN TO: Peggy Carter, Credence Barebone
WARNINGS: none at the moment
STATUS: open
With lunch made, consumed, and now tidied up, Benedict is at something of a loss for what to do. There aren't nearly as many chores for him to tackle in the dead of winter as there were when he first arrived, which means he winds up holed up in the Inn common room, near the fire, with one of his blankets from the gifts he'd been given and his very fascinating copy of Tarzan of the Apes.
It is set on the Surface, in a thick jungle rife with wild animals that could tear you limb from limb if they so chose, and Benedict is both horrified and desperately intrigued as to how anyone could possibly live there. The fact that he, himself, is also living on the Surface is something he tries not to think much about. He's still half-convinced it's only a matter of time before a nest of Silkweavers overruns the habble and they'll all be horrifically murdered before any sort of defense can be mustered. Without his gauntlet here, or even his sword, he knows he won't be much of a match for a real opponent, let alone a contingent of them. Murderous fauna just one more entry in the long list of things that are apparently out to kill them, behind the weather, it seems.
The door is open, allowing noise and heat to seep in and out of the room, so Benedict isn't completely shut off from the rest of the community, glancing up from his book every time someone passes by to see who it is in case they require his assistance.
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: February 7, midafternoon
OPEN TO: Peggy Carter, Credence Barebone
WARNINGS: none at the moment
STATUS: open
With lunch made, consumed, and now tidied up, Benedict is at something of a loss for what to do. There aren't nearly as many chores for him to tackle in the dead of winter as there were when he first arrived, which means he winds up holed up in the Inn common room, near the fire, with one of his blankets from the gifts he'd been given and his very fascinating copy of Tarzan of the Apes.
It is set on the Surface, in a thick jungle rife with wild animals that could tear you limb from limb if they so chose, and Benedict is both horrified and desperately intrigued as to how anyone could possibly live there. The fact that he, himself, is also living on the Surface is something he tries not to think much about. He's still half-convinced it's only a matter of time before a nest of Silkweavers overruns the habble and they'll all be horrifically murdered before any sort of defense can be mustered. Without his gauntlet here, or even his sword, he knows he won't be much of a match for a real opponent, let alone a contingent of them. Murderous fauna just one more entry in the long list of things that are apparently out to kill them, behind the weather, it seems.
The door is open, allowing noise and heat to seep in and out of the room, so Benedict isn't completely shut off from the rest of the community, glancing up from his book every time someone passes by to see who it is in case they require his assistance.
no subject
no subject
He smooths out the paper a little with his clean hand, using the edge of his wrist to hold it in place so he won't get smudgy fingerprints on it, and turns to Credence properly.
"Why don't you tell me a little bit about your sister before we get properly started, hm?"
no subject
no subject
"She reminds me of a field mouse," He says after a few moments of silence. "She's very quiet unless she's singing songs she was taught--she, uhm. She was one of Ma's newer kids, taken rom a family of 12. But even though she missed them and cried about it and had nightmares about it like everyone else, the next day she always played hopscotch and sung like nothing was wrong."
He misses her. He misses her the most, because she was alone and Credence had scared her most of all. He wants to tell them that he left her, crying in the corner, while he finally gave into all of the hatred he didn't even know he had.
His hands curl into themselves, nails pressing into the palm of his hands.
"Modesty was very nice," He surmises. "Nothing bad should have happened to her, but it did. Just like it did Chastity, too, or anyone Ma took." He's not sure if this is what they meant--or if Benedict just wanted a solid, physical description or not. His lips twitch, suddenly unsure, and he sinks down into his chair. This isn't therapy, this is just a drawing.