![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_hawkeye posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsThe villain of our tale begins acclimating to his new situation.
The rest. Where were the rest?
No matter how many times he flipped through the pages the count remained frighteningly meager. But that was the nature of the book, wasn't it -- to spread itself like seeds in the wind, searching for a place in which to take root. He should have taken precautions, but there'd been no time. He'd had to get out.
For a moment his mind spun wildly. That girl -- darker skinned than anyone he'd ever seen, and clearly a practitioner. Could she have taken the pages? Surely she'd been after the book. Avalon had been sealed for time out of mind. What else would bring someone to that cursed place? He had to find her, find her now, before--
No. First things first.
Modred sat back and forced himself to consider the dead man. He'd thought to emerge at a crossroads -- a place where paths conjoined and the walls of reality were thin-- and found himself beneath an enormous stone bridge as something huge thundered above him. As he cringed from the sound there'd been a shout from behind him, and his hand had moved on its own. He hadn't even realized what he'd done until the strange noise had passed and he'd found himself looking into a pale face and dulling eyes. Nonetheless, what was done was done.
An enormous lamp nearby cast enough light for Modred to make a search of the corpse. Much of what the man carried was unfamiliar to him: a small metal object that folded out into a simple blade, some sort of screw, and various other tools; a pouch containing a few coins and small papers he didn't recognize; a glass bottle so smooth and uniform he marveled at the skill it must have taken to produce. The clothes were stale-smelling and spattered with tacky blood, but the night was cold. Modred took them.
A slab of some sort of spongy brown material and a large blanket made of curiously slick fabric indicated he'd interrupted the man as he made camp for the night. It would have to do for him as well; his imprisonment had left him weak, and he needed to think. He was surrounded by buildings larger than any tower he'd ever seen, and in the distance he could see pairs of lights moving. There was no telling where he was, nor how much time had passed. He might even be in a different realm altogether. If he was to recover the lost pages he would need to learn quickly, and to learn he would need the language.
A few quick strokes of the knife gave him what he needed. Steeling himself for the task ahead, Modred held the dead man's tongue to his mouth and began to eat.
The rest. Where were the rest?
No matter how many times he flipped through the pages the count remained frighteningly meager. But that was the nature of the book, wasn't it -- to spread itself like seeds in the wind, searching for a place in which to take root. He should have taken precautions, but there'd been no time. He'd had to get out.
For a moment his mind spun wildly. That girl -- darker skinned than anyone he'd ever seen, and clearly a practitioner. Could she have taken the pages? Surely she'd been after the book. Avalon had been sealed for time out of mind. What else would bring someone to that cursed place? He had to find her, find her now, before--
No. First things first.
Modred sat back and forced himself to consider the dead man. He'd thought to emerge at a crossroads -- a place where paths conjoined and the walls of reality were thin-- and found himself beneath an enormous stone bridge as something huge thundered above him. As he cringed from the sound there'd been a shout from behind him, and his hand had moved on its own. He hadn't even realized what he'd done until the strange noise had passed and he'd found himself looking into a pale face and dulling eyes. Nonetheless, what was done was done.
An enormous lamp nearby cast enough light for Modred to make a search of the corpse. Much of what the man carried was unfamiliar to him: a small metal object that folded out into a simple blade, some sort of screw, and various other tools; a pouch containing a few coins and small papers he didn't recognize; a glass bottle so smooth and uniform he marveled at the skill it must have taken to produce. The clothes were stale-smelling and spattered with tacky blood, but the night was cold. Modred took them.
A slab of some sort of spongy brown material and a large blanket made of curiously slick fabric indicated he'd interrupted the man as he made camp for the night. It would have to do for him as well; his imprisonment had left him weak, and he needed to think. He was surrounded by buildings larger than any tower he'd ever seen, and in the distance he could see pairs of lights moving. There was no telling where he was, nor how much time had passed. He might even be in a different realm altogether. If he was to recover the lost pages he would need to learn quickly, and to learn he would need the language.
A few quick strokes of the knife gave him what he needed. Steeling himself for the task ahead, Modred held the dead man's tongue to his mouth and began to eat.
