Lost in Thought

[Motjam_ 26]

Thornir's home was a mess. That would be an understatement; pieces of armour dot the home, greaves on the staircase, gauntlets on the dinner table, a helm staring vacantly from the desk and a tabard in a crumpled pool on the floor. His house would be awash with parchment, with various scribbles and sketches, some pinned to the walls. Paper flooded his desk, where he could be seen sketching away, making various notes from on sketches he drew. Every now and then his violet eyes flicker to an old medical treatise; a leather bound book lay spread open on desk, it's spine twitching and fraying, it's wings and feathers battered, scratched and with small rips. 

 

Within the splayed treatise lay the secrets of anatomy, the structures of skeletons, how various bones fitted together. The intricacies of how each bone supported one another; various diagrams showing how a various joints should fit together and how it could be fixed if they became askew. Directions and theories for muscle movement within the arms and legs, how the biceps and triceps complimented one another in the arm's motions. The various major blood vessels that ran along them. Detailed descriptions of how the veins and arteries were structured, how the blood flow could be blocked in a vein; if you down and along the arm, causing swelling that would subside if you were to let go. The details of the artery and it's thick muscular walls. Various diagrams of organs and hypotheses for their function. The various afflictions caused by breakages in theses bones, blood vessels and organs.

All this knowledge, in one book. From which Thornir was noting the hip and how it fitted together within the pelvis. But this was only the start for Thornir, soon he would read several more books. Books on afflictions, books on cures and books on methods of practice, how and when to use equipment. Thornir still had a long way to go but he scribbled on; through the pain of his tensing wrist, beginning to seize from hours of scrawling.

 

Thornir stopped momentarily, flexing his wrist he curses lightly under his breath, slumping back into his chair; Thornir rolls his neck lazily, gazing mindlessly towards the window. It seemed light outside although fleeting, being replaced with an ever encroaching dim darkness. Thornir's pupils dilate as he became lost in his thoughts, he reminisces on his recent trip to the grove the woman with the uniquely pink hair. How she'd given him a tour and welcomed him so. 

 

A small smile curls onto his lips as he looks back to the memory fondly. The warm sea air and brilliant sunshine. A complete juxtaposition to his Princedom. Monotonous blizzards and overcast skies, not to mention that everything outside the safety of the walls wants to kill you...That is, if the cold doesn't first. Thornir thinks back to the twins, how joyful they'd been, playing in the Spring sun. He chuckles to himself softly before slowly tearing his gaze from his window and back to the restless ocean of white before him. A listening blackness topping the waves. He lets out a small groan and begins to groggily rise from his chair. He take the opportunity to stretch as he waddles to the warm glow of the fireplace, plucking a long stick from the kindling pile and submerging it within the flames. Thornir pulls it back from the fire and waddles back his desk. Cupping the small flame as he walked, before transferring the flames to a stump of a candle. 

 

Thornir slides the sketches and notes back into the old weathered book and quickly closes it, pushing it to one side. He takes the quill from it's pot, sliding another piece of parchment from the pile and setting it down on the table with a soft flap. Thornir hurriedly scrawls on the parchment, though as he begins, his writing begins to falter. The ink meanders ungracefully along the page as he writes, his head begins to bow forward and his eyelids slowly drooping shut. Thornir's head slowly tumbles down to the desk...

With a sudden jolt. He awakes with a start, looking at the paper through bleary eyes. He lets out a grumble of vexation, huffing, he clutches the arms of his chair and slowly rises. His movements are shoddy and  once he reaches his full height his form begins to sway. He leans forward puffing out the candle with a single breath, then he slowly hobbles to the stairs, stumbling left and right, using the wall as his anchor to keep him upright. 

 

Thornir's eyelid flickers and his elven ears droop. He pads softly towards his bed, clambering over his cover before just collapsing in the middle of bed; his breathing soft and slow. Thornir's room is a mess and that would be an understatement.  

 

[bickando 3967]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.