Post by Frodo on May 15, 2006 20:15:57 GMT -5
Vidar stumbled, and just barely caught himself in time - a grey puddle flashed before his face before his long-fingered hand snatched at the brick wall, clumsily catching a hold. He righted himself, breathing heavily. 'Stupid legs' he thought to himself. It had been a month since he had been in his human form, and he was having a little trouble with the balance. Hesitantly testing another step with a barefoot, and another, it was an half and hour or so before he could walk convincingly. Walking, sitting down, and talking - oh, lord, talking! - he moaned. He wondered if he had to learn again. Last time, he hadn't been a human . . . in half a year, was it? he couldn't recall . . . and found that his new mouth simply couldn't shape words. This was 70-odd years ago, so he simply dressed as a war veteran, wearing a piece of bandage about his throat, claiming it was shrapnel that took his voice. Until he learned to speak again, that is.
A breeze blew past, and funny bumps rippled across his skin. He started, a feral growl tearing from deep in his chest, before realizing it was wind, and it had made goose-flesh. He also realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. He'd simply forgotten about it. 'stupid clothes, stupid human . . .'
It was toughest in this form, but the most vital. He had to pass easily without question, and a rabid cat would surely be caught.
without question.
His brain set to ticking as he pulled the warm, now familiar black tee over his head, ruffling his hair. Vidar pulled up his sagging jeans, wincing at just how clearly his bones showed. He needed human food, and . . . blood.
It was nearly time. He patted his pockets until he felt something hard and smooth; he pulled it out. It was a mirror. It had been fashioned by his master, Grenalk. It was no larger than his palm, and small, smooth, blood-red garnets decorated the edges; the mirror had been bewitched to show a vampire's reflection, unlike normal mirrors.
Vidar grimaced at the murky reflection. There were lines under his eyes, and vague, grey streaks were about his ears. Not enough to be noticeable, but it would be have to be soon. Human blood.
He replaced the mirror in his pocket, pulling up his pants again.
Searching for a strip of cloth, he found a real leather belt looped across a rusted bed frame. Pulling it off, and gingerly placing it about his waist, he then set to the task of shoes.
These befuddled and frustrated him more than anything yet - the only good that came out of it was he became irritated enough to vocalize threats, thus finding his speech again, and now his feet were protected, and he could pass as . . . . who?
without question . . .
What roll would he take on now? He'd been anything from stable-boy and janitor to seaman and taxi driver. He vaguely wondered if he ought to try something new, or just stick with the old routine.
"Morning, Ladies and Gents . . . " he began. To his dismay, his accent was decidedly cockney. And he was in North London! It definitely wouldn't pass.
For today, he decided to play urchin.
Wandering down two streets, ducking into a culvert, walking half-a-mile, and climbing out again, he found himself before home-sweet-home: a run down apartment in the back lot of a movie theater. Climbing through a broken window, he came into the red-carpeted dining room. In the spintered bureau, there was his most precious item.
A guitar.
'Singing urchin, playing guitar. Ought to get me enough euros to buy dinner, right?" he said to himself, going off to find a suitable place to play.
A breeze blew past, and funny bumps rippled across his skin. He started, a feral growl tearing from deep in his chest, before realizing it was wind, and it had made goose-flesh. He also realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. He'd simply forgotten about it. 'stupid clothes, stupid human . . .'
It was toughest in this form, but the most vital. He had to pass easily without question, and a rabid cat would surely be caught.
without question.
His brain set to ticking as he pulled the warm, now familiar black tee over his head, ruffling his hair. Vidar pulled up his sagging jeans, wincing at just how clearly his bones showed. He needed human food, and . . . blood.
It was nearly time. He patted his pockets until he felt something hard and smooth; he pulled it out. It was a mirror. It had been fashioned by his master, Grenalk. It was no larger than his palm, and small, smooth, blood-red garnets decorated the edges; the mirror had been bewitched to show a vampire's reflection, unlike normal mirrors.
Vidar grimaced at the murky reflection. There were lines under his eyes, and vague, grey streaks were about his ears. Not enough to be noticeable, but it would be have to be soon. Human blood.
He replaced the mirror in his pocket, pulling up his pants again.
Searching for a strip of cloth, he found a real leather belt looped across a rusted bed frame. Pulling it off, and gingerly placing it about his waist, he then set to the task of shoes.
These befuddled and frustrated him more than anything yet - the only good that came out of it was he became irritated enough to vocalize threats, thus finding his speech again, and now his feet were protected, and he could pass as . . . . who?
without question . . .
What roll would he take on now? He'd been anything from stable-boy and janitor to seaman and taxi driver. He vaguely wondered if he ought to try something new, or just stick with the old routine.
"Morning, Ladies and Gents . . . " he began. To his dismay, his accent was decidedly cockney. And he was in North London! It definitely wouldn't pass.
For today, he decided to play urchin.
Wandering down two streets, ducking into a culvert, walking half-a-mile, and climbing out again, he found himself before home-sweet-home: a run down apartment in the back lot of a movie theater. Climbing through a broken window, he came into the red-carpeted dining room. In the spintered bureau, there was his most precious item.
A guitar.
'Singing urchin, playing guitar. Ought to get me enough euros to buy dinner, right?" he said to himself, going off to find a suitable place to play.