Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jul 18, 2007 17:12:17 GMT -5
A week had passed, one of constant sorrows and begrudged snarls at the staff.
Somehow, nothing had tasted good, nothing was beautiful, and I hated all smells that were not Mirielle's, all things that did not come from her.
Seeing as there was nothing of her in the house, save her scent on my shirt, I was in constant anger, constant disgust, my mood the reflection of a deep inner battle.
The days were spent in my study, leafing away correspondances and ledgers, grumbling at what food was served to me, pestering Giovanna and the others. Solely To-Biko was my friend, and he only I tolerated, along with Cascata, and the both of them had shown me patience unbound in my surliness and agressivity.
The nights were spent whimpering in the solitude of my bed, falling asleep to fantasies of the Angel, waking up to find the harsh reality of the unknown, a whispering demon tempting me into horrible delusions.
The voices spoke in Habiru, Caerdicci, D'Angeline, and prompted terrible thoughts, despicable envies, my hand twitching and moving on the bed becoming my enemy, my nightmare. Slowly, I realized the demon was taking over, and I cried over it in the secret of my chambers, my eyes sore and aching the morning, migraine my constant companion.
Slowly, the thought of Miri had become a haven, something to ward my hateable urges, and I called her in my feverish sleep, my body aching for her soft touch, her lips my cup to drink. I barely understood what it was all about, but love and need were conjugated to something deep and powerful, and more times passed, the more she weakened, and I feared never to see her again.
That morning, I was surly and annoyed, and I wrote several notes, one to the Dowayne of Gentian, the other to Nicola Soria.
The letter to Nicola had returned to me from the palace with an amused look from the messenger, and the marshall had advised me to send it to the House Da Soria.
Taking it as a sign of fate, I kept the letter in my drawer, waiting for the Dowayne of Gentian to find me in reply.
To-Biko had proven rather efficient in his task of weeding out the candidates, and I had set my mind on Riva no Gentian, a reader famed to have solved other mysteries before mine.
As I reflected, I scratched my chin. I had not shaved in a week, and my face was covered in a budding beard that betrayed my Caerdicci blood. No matter. I cared little for how I looked, as evidence by my semi-open shirt and my bare feet. I had not bothered to dress up in days.
Somehow, nothing had tasted good, nothing was beautiful, and I hated all smells that were not Mirielle's, all things that did not come from her.
Seeing as there was nothing of her in the house, save her scent on my shirt, I was in constant anger, constant disgust, my mood the reflection of a deep inner battle.
The days were spent in my study, leafing away correspondances and ledgers, grumbling at what food was served to me, pestering Giovanna and the others. Solely To-Biko was my friend, and he only I tolerated, along with Cascata, and the both of them had shown me patience unbound in my surliness and agressivity.
The nights were spent whimpering in the solitude of my bed, falling asleep to fantasies of the Angel, waking up to find the harsh reality of the unknown, a whispering demon tempting me into horrible delusions.
The voices spoke in Habiru, Caerdicci, D'Angeline, and prompted terrible thoughts, despicable envies, my hand twitching and moving on the bed becoming my enemy, my nightmare. Slowly, I realized the demon was taking over, and I cried over it in the secret of my chambers, my eyes sore and aching the morning, migraine my constant companion.
Slowly, the thought of Miri had become a haven, something to ward my hateable urges, and I called her in my feverish sleep, my body aching for her soft touch, her lips my cup to drink. I barely understood what it was all about, but love and need were conjugated to something deep and powerful, and more times passed, the more she weakened, and I feared never to see her again.
That morning, I was surly and annoyed, and I wrote several notes, one to the Dowayne of Gentian, the other to Nicola Soria.
The letter to Nicola had returned to me from the palace with an amused look from the messenger, and the marshall had advised me to send it to the House Da Soria.
Taking it as a sign of fate, I kept the letter in my drawer, waiting for the Dowayne of Gentian to find me in reply.
To-Biko had proven rather efficient in his task of weeding out the candidates, and I had set my mind on Riva no Gentian, a reader famed to have solved other mysteries before mine.
As I reflected, I scratched my chin. I had not shaved in a week, and my face was covered in a budding beard that betrayed my Caerdicci blood. No matter. I cared little for how I looked, as evidence by my semi-open shirt and my bare feet. I had not bothered to dress up in days.