Fall 33rd, 514 AV, Mid-morning
Lucian had been careless. His back practically groaned in pain, and he inhaled sharply through his nose as he walked down the street, forcing himself to appear as if he weren't in pain at all. The supposedly clever raven had been playing on rubble, precariously standing on teetering pieces of broken housing in the Sunset Quarters.
The raven had slipped, his shirt sliding up as he fell and the broken pieces scraping his back and left arm. He hadn't wanted to be injured, but he thought that if he was going to be, the injury was going to happen while in a glorious gang fight in the middle of the street that the scrawny bird would just have happened to be caught in, perhaps a bottle smashed on his head and leaving him with cuts and a headache before he would run off and avoid people for the rest of the night.
If only.
His current predicament left him prone, despite the fact that he attempted to hide in the shadows. Every racous sound around him seemed louder than it usual, the raven holding the back of his shirt away from the painful, though quickly scabbing and shallow, scrapes. The pain in his arm was less than that of his back, though even as he held the wool away from his back it simply scratched against his arm.
The raven only planned on sitting for a few more chimes before finding someone to patch him up. He was hiding behind a small pile of dilapidated crates and broken dreams, still visible if one looked closely into the shadows. He groaned quietly, finally standing up and letting the rough wool fall over his back, wishing that he had worn his much softer cotten shirt that day, rather than trying to be warm in the rapidly cooling weather and putting on wool instead.
.
Lucian had been careless. His back practically groaned in pain, and he inhaled sharply through his nose as he walked down the street, forcing himself to appear as if he weren't in pain at all. The supposedly clever raven had been playing on rubble, precariously standing on teetering pieces of broken housing in the Sunset Quarters.
The raven had slipped, his shirt sliding up as he fell and the broken pieces scraping his back and left arm. He hadn't wanted to be injured, but he thought that if he was going to be, the injury was going to happen while in a glorious gang fight in the middle of the street that the scrawny bird would just have happened to be caught in, perhaps a bottle smashed on his head and leaving him with cuts and a headache before he would run off and avoid people for the rest of the night.
If only.
His current predicament left him prone, despite the fact that he attempted to hide in the shadows. Every racous sound around him seemed louder than it usual, the raven holding the back of his shirt away from the painful, though quickly scabbing and shallow, scrapes. The pain in his arm was less than that of his back, though even as he held the wool away from his back it simply scratched against his arm.
The raven only planned on sitting for a few more chimes before finding someone to patch him up. He was hiding behind a small pile of dilapidated crates and broken dreams, still visible if one looked closely into the shadows. He groaned quietly, finally standing up and letting the rough wool fall over his back, wishing that he had worn his much softer cotten shirt that day, rather than trying to be warm in the rapidly cooling weather and putting on wool instead.
.
