30th of Summer, 513 AV
If anyone were to nestle in the dank, musky corner of the Hunter's Gather, it would likely involve contemplating the intricacies of life. Corners were places for artists, for those who understood things others didn't. By nature corner-dwellers were fashionably off-putting and mysterious, furtive beneath their spectacles, their dark coifs casting comely shadows over their browbones.
Specter, however, was a tragic outlier. He was not, as nestled in that corner as he was, contemplating the intricacies of life. As he chewed on the garnet-colored silk wrapped across his shoulder, fraying it beyond recognition, he didn't concern himself with the future, artistic pain, politics of the harvest, his coif, or that his mother felt guilty about raising a mentally unstable child who tried to eat wood. In fact, he rarely thought that cohesively at all. He was most comfortable thinking in colors and flashes of imagery and sound, not unlike the way the world looked when he ran. Arguably, nothing of substance ever stirred in his little half-bred brain. Arguably, he'd never understand things the way more functional beings did. Arguably, he had all the emotional capacity of an angry brick. But, just like humans and gods and small stupid creatures that lived in the mud, he thought.
And that's what he liked to do here at the Hunters' Gather—second to getting very, very drunk.
Specter hoarded his third mug of mead to his chest like a squirrel dreading the theft of its acorn, shrunken at the farthest reach of the room. Being in public was uncomfortable for him, but to some extent he'd come to trust the this place. The strangers there tended to find him uninteresting, often too young, too unaware or too apathetic to remember the old news that made Specter recognizable. He looked Symenestra to them. He blended, and that was wonderful. Humming tunelessly to himself, he rubbed his cheek against the mug's surface, content as a neurotic creature could ever hope to be. He drank, clicked his teeth and thought about trees and meat and eating trees and eating trees made of meat, because that's the way his mind worked at its best.
Involved with this mug love affair as he was, he didn't see the two older Symenestra come through the entrance. What was to come didn't happen often, but when it did, they never realized he could hear them, his ears enhanced by Zith blood as they were. He didn't know where it came from or who said it, but it only took the first demeaning syllable to trigger him: “That's the Jessamine boy, isn't it? Dra—“
Specter hissed and swung his arm across the table, firing the three mugs (all in varying stages of completion) off the edge with the force of a ballista bolt. He heard a hearty “thunk” and a splash, implying the mugs had pelted a passerby, but he wasn't looking. Fuming and struggling to maintain his manipulated djed, he snatched a mirror from his pack and lurched over it, correcting his eyes, skin and hair as they began to darken. Once satisfied, Specter blinked up at the victim, not yet registering that he ought to be embarrassed or apologizing. Maybe he'd think to pick up on that later.
If anyone were to nestle in the dank, musky corner of the Hunter's Gather, it would likely involve contemplating the intricacies of life. Corners were places for artists, for those who understood things others didn't. By nature corner-dwellers were fashionably off-putting and mysterious, furtive beneath their spectacles, their dark coifs casting comely shadows over their browbones.
Specter, however, was a tragic outlier. He was not, as nestled in that corner as he was, contemplating the intricacies of life. As he chewed on the garnet-colored silk wrapped across his shoulder, fraying it beyond recognition, he didn't concern himself with the future, artistic pain, politics of the harvest, his coif, or that his mother felt guilty about raising a mentally unstable child who tried to eat wood. In fact, he rarely thought that cohesively at all. He was most comfortable thinking in colors and flashes of imagery and sound, not unlike the way the world looked when he ran. Arguably, nothing of substance ever stirred in his little half-bred brain. Arguably, he'd never understand things the way more functional beings did. Arguably, he had all the emotional capacity of an angry brick. But, just like humans and gods and small stupid creatures that lived in the mud, he thought.
And that's what he liked to do here at the Hunters' Gather—second to getting very, very drunk.
Specter hoarded his third mug of mead to his chest like a squirrel dreading the theft of its acorn, shrunken at the farthest reach of the room. Being in public was uncomfortable for him, but to some extent he'd come to trust the this place. The strangers there tended to find him uninteresting, often too young, too unaware or too apathetic to remember the old news that made Specter recognizable. He looked Symenestra to them. He blended, and that was wonderful. Humming tunelessly to himself, he rubbed his cheek against the mug's surface, content as a neurotic creature could ever hope to be. He drank, clicked his teeth and thought about trees and meat and eating trees and eating trees made of meat, because that's the way his mind worked at its best.
Involved with this mug love affair as he was, he didn't see the two older Symenestra come through the entrance. What was to come didn't happen often, but when it did, they never realized he could hear them, his ears enhanced by Zith blood as they were. He didn't know where it came from or who said it, but it only took the first demeaning syllable to trigger him: “That's the Jessamine boy, isn't it? Dra—“
Specter hissed and swung his arm across the table, firing the three mugs (all in varying stages of completion) off the edge with the force of a ballista bolt. He heard a hearty “thunk” and a splash, implying the mugs had pelted a passerby, but he wasn't looking. Fuming and struggling to maintain his manipulated djed, he snatched a mirror from his pack and lurched over it, correcting his eyes, skin and hair as they began to darken. Once satisfied, Specter blinked up at the victim, not yet registering that he ought to be embarrassed or apologizing. Maybe he'd think to pick up on that later.
