|Skeren Dreamera (skeren) wrote,|
@ 2005-04-30 21:49:00
|Entry tags:||fiction, original|
Over the course of time
Over the course of time
By: Skeren Dreamera
Note: This is an ORIGINAL story, meaning the characters are mine, plucked out of my mind for this occasion. Prowler, I hope that this lives up to your request!!
Written for horis
The clatter of keys echoed hollowly in the room, the only thing breaking the monotony of silence and deep breathing as the man leaned closer to the screen, a small frown on his face. This was the norm in his life, and he found that it was far from captivating, far from inspiring. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he stared at the mess that littered his screen. And that was complete shit.
He didn’t know what it was lately, he couldn’t write, couldn’t think… nothing. It was like every single thing that had ever passed for a muse had flitted out of his reach and wasn’t about to let him be creative, project or not. Sadly, it wasn’t new. It was something that had stretched out from days, to months, and now it was touching on years, a total lack of inspiration that he had yet to find a cure for. Or a reason even. A reason for this might have been just as good as a cure in this case.
Shaking off the thoughts as pointless, he shoved back from his desk, looking around his empty apartment with a small frown, long hair falling into gray-yellow eyes. He had rather thought he’d be somewhere by now, but no. He still lived in this ragtag building, living off mostly faded memories of a life he could barely remember.
Had he ever been young? Thinking back as he gathered up his leather trench coat, he realized that no, he hadn’t been. He’d always been old. He’d always dealt with things like an adult from his very earliest of memories. There was one time he’d felt young… but the memory always eluded him.
He collected a little chest that he kept under his bed, one of the few elaborate things in the place, he put it on the table, staring at it. He only debated a moment before he tugged on his coat, picking it back up before spinning to stride for the door.
It had been too long since he’d let his mind be clear of anything but ritual… years? Maybe that was the cause of his fleeting unease and his inability to create. Maybe he’d lost touch with the goddess, the spirits, the muses…
Securing the chest on the back of his motorcycle, the tall man swept onto the crimson and black machine, smiling to himself over the quality. It was one of his few indulgences, one he’d only just paid off with a little help from Odin. The man had been unexpectedly generous with the offer before he’d dropped off his radar a few months before.
But it was best not to think about it. The past was the past. It didn’t bear consideration when dwelling would do little more than send him off into a depression again. But it was one of those nights. He was thinking too much, picking at old wounds. This was how he’d gotten his name. Prowler… He never could remember how he’d been named that, just one day he went from something normal, to that title. There were so many things like that, gaps that he knew shouldn’t be empty.
Shaking his head roughly to knock himself out of his thoughts, he started the ghost machine, as he’d affectionately named it. Once more back in the present, he shoved his long, half-blond hair out of his face, a bit amused to note that from about halfway down it was still black. He needed to dye his hair again, but something was stopping him. Just another thing to think about later. A few moments later he’d set out to the road, heading down to the desert forest not far outside the city.
Peering up into the sky as he turned off his bike, Prowler noted that it was night out. He tended to not go out during the day, as his pale skin showed. Not that it was advisable as the desert sun tended to give him severe sunburn if he went uncovered, but he figured that next time he’d try to catch daylight.
That caused him to pause, and he tilted his head back to stare into the moonless sky. Did that mean he was going to face the world again? Since his last lover had broken with him he’d tried to avoid people, and here he was considering going back out into the mainstream again.
Actually, on second thought, that wasn’t really the case. The desert nightlife thrived on the night, not the scorching days, and he should try to remember that. He should try to remember allot of things. Twisting to unbind the little wooden chest he’d secured behind him, the tall man climbed from his motorcycle and turned to the circle of desert trees that he’d long since claimed as his ritual place, a wry expression on his face.
“I must really be the only one that comes here if this is the condition you’re in.” He didn’t feel silly talking to the grove as he sat the chest down, finding it far more natural to talk to trees than people. “But that means I have to clean you up before I an do anything.”
Moving around the small clearing, he tossed dead branches out to the edge of the area, cleared off the large flat stones he used for his quarters. Once he was satisfied with the state of the area he opened the chest, collecting candles and incense from within. He’d never really taken to the entire magic thing, but he knew meditation, and that was what he was planning on doing. With the proper atmosphere of course.
He moved from place to place, invoking elements and a goddess he wasn’t sure existed, and then he closed his eyes on a sigh, absently wishing that he was with someone who did believe in all this. It wouldn’t seem so empty then, and maybe with luck he’d do it more often…
He did not expect this wish to do anything. Then again, sometimes the unexpected happens when you’ve about given up on it. That didn’t stop him from practically jumping out of his skin when a loud clatter of stones and dust crashed into being right behind him though.
Spinning around, gray eyes squinted with the effort to keep from coughing, the tall man started waving his arms, hearing a muted groan from within the mess. “Who’s there? Are you hurt?” He was listening but he didn’t hear any airplanes overhead. Odd.
Waving her own arms, a decidedly smaller figure peered blearily up from her sitting position. “What the hell? Since when did this shit work on me?”
Bending over, the gray eyed figured scrutinized the demon winged figure sitting at his feet, an annoyed look scrawled over her face. “I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself.”
Rubbing dirt out her dark eyes, she finally seemed to register that he was as shocked to see her as she was to see him. “What, you mean that you didn’t know you were gonna call me? What kind of shit is that?” She got to her feet, standing a good foot shorter than him, which only seemed to further her annoyance. “And who are you? You look familiar…”
Struck dumb as the dust cleared enough for the girl’s features to be clear, he had a shock of memory. He’d seen her before, a long, long time ago. When he’d been named. “Prowler.”
She paused, then blinked, a slender hand coming up to tug him down to her level as she scrutinized his hair. Then she eyed his face, fingers swiping dust away for a better look. “Prowler you say?” She received a reluctant nod. “You dyed your hair at some point?” Another nod. “I see.”
He really didn’t know what to do when she first smacked him over the head, then hugged him while he was still dazed, just sort of standing there as she squeezed the breath out of him.
“Idiot… Next time just use the phone.”