[PP-F11] Pent up Repent (Locke)

[Azide 0]

The mottled face of the sandy edifice towered above him in a way which was quite literal, forcing him to crane his neck ever higher just to catch a glimpse of the tallest spires stretching endlessly above. All things considered, the structure could be no higher than the many skyscrapers he had once passed by with regularity. And yet from where he stood, the Cathedral of Taft seemed larger and grander than the whole lot combined. Indeed, even the lowliest of steeples gave the impression of reaching into the very heavens themselves. He wondered what it meant- that today, those heavens had taken on the mantle of an angry grey.

The humbling sight soon became a blur in his eyes, and he raised a hand to shield himself from the falling droplets. Against his coat, the cold spheres broke with little fanfare, but made up for it in their persistence. Against the heavyset double doors, rain came knocking with a vengeance. Against the limestone basilica, it splattered without relent, filling the air with a steady torrent of splishes and splashes.

By now, the downpour had become too heavy, too unforgiving. His lightly tousled hair had become slick and matted, and a thin sheen coated his pale complexion. Beads of water dripped from the end of his brown locks and outlined his jaws in translucent streams before trailing off the point of his chin. Azide shivered as the dampness filled his lungs with a chill, and as he inhaled slowly through his nose, he felt as if he were trying to breathe during a particularly icy shower. Each shallow stuttered breath felt more like a gasp, and the air felt thin and unsatiating in his chest. The young man laid his hand bare against the gate, and where supple skin met ancient wood, scatterings of a heavy sky cascaded over now clammy fingers. Against the outstretched limb, he leaned forward, head bowed as the rain dribbled down his slender frame. 

With a sigh, he conceded that today seemed as good a day as any to claim sanctuary. Azide latched a stiff hand around a worn metal handle and struck thrice against the great double doors. A low rumble signaled for the soaked player to step back as the lumbering gates lurched open.

Edited October 6, 2015 by Azide

[Locke 0]

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; more importantly, it was the rainiest of times, and he had no umbrella. Geeze, getting caught flat-footed like this? With gritted teeth and a vigorous shake of the head, a whole assortment of translucent pearls were flung from his long and dark hair- which in this weather, was more mop than mane. Locke darted in and out of alleyways only to notice how little cover they actually provided him, and he cursed himself for having not explored the newest of floors beforehand with more intimacy. How long now had he been putting it off? Why did he finally relent today of all days?

And maybe he shouldn't have ditched those lamebrains back at the teleportation gate. But to be fair, could you really call it a party when there hadn't even been any alcohol?

Oh, how he wished that it had been raining liquor instead of its plainer cousin. At least then, he could have leaned his head back and gotten his fill. Instead, he was left to splash around in shallow puddles every time his feet struck the soaking pavement. Even the mop on his head was now doing more sopping than mopping, and would require a thorough wringing by the time he found a suitable shelter.

As he rounded a corner, Locke caught sight of a certain landmark which he had yet to acquaint himself with: the famed Cathedral of Taft. A man of faith was not something which he had ever claimed to be, although conversely, it was also something he had never claim not to be. It turned out these religious folk were often glad to house wanderers as a show of goodwill, as long as those vagrants happened to be people of the book. Over the years, Locke had claimed so many books that he had lost track- on many an occasion- of exactly which text he supposedly believed in.

But even so, he liked to think that this relationship was a mutually beneficial one; he would enjoy the comforts of a warm bed and a full stomach, and the monks, nuns, imans or whomever would get to sleep that night feeling better about themselves.

Yet another item on the vast list of things he did not claim to be was- by the nature of the business- a good person. That would probably also explain why he was not above pulling a Jean Valjean, and making off in the morning with any valuables within reach. On that note, he wondered what sort of treasure might be left lying around by some hasty front-liner...

Edited October 8, 2015 by Locke