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Mar. 14th, 2009 05:42 pmWhere does a god live?
A small, comfortable room, the Nexus having picked up on it's owner's personality and decorated itself accordingly. Wednesday would never have taken the time or the interest to do so himself. He didn't feel as if he'd be there long enough for such things.
The walls were soft grey-blue, the light ambient and originating from nowhere in particular. The bedspread is old, handmade, and Norse in origin, the pattern intricate and dark. The lamp beside the bed is cheap and resembles hotel room lighting, as does the desk against the wall. The carpet is worn and stained from multitudes of feet having crossed it. A bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon and two glasses are on the desk as well. A raven with glossy black wings stands at the foot of the bed grooming itself, one wing and then the other. Otherwise, the room would be sparse save for the books.
Books, old and older, crumbling and re-bound, were stacked everywhere. Two chairs and a small table held their share, and several were stacked next to the bed. Nexus history, magicka, tomes describing other worlds and their own histories and peoples, fiction, poetry, war tactics--any subject imaginable. Not all were in English, and many were in languages that weren't familiar. There were no notebooks or writing implements, no laptop, nothing to take notes of any sort. The lone inhabitant of the room doesn't forget easily.
Currently, he's sleeping, a book open next to him and the lamp nearby lit, harshly bright against the cool warmth of the rest of the room. In slumber, he doesn't seem a god at all, only a man.
And he snores, but rather quietly.
A small, comfortable room, the Nexus having picked up on it's owner's personality and decorated itself accordingly. Wednesday would never have taken the time or the interest to do so himself. He didn't feel as if he'd be there long enough for such things.
The walls were soft grey-blue, the light ambient and originating from nowhere in particular. The bedspread is old, handmade, and Norse in origin, the pattern intricate and dark. The lamp beside the bed is cheap and resembles hotel room lighting, as does the desk against the wall. The carpet is worn and stained from multitudes of feet having crossed it. A bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon and two glasses are on the desk as well. A raven with glossy black wings stands at the foot of the bed grooming itself, one wing and then the other. Otherwise, the room would be sparse save for the books.
Books, old and older, crumbling and re-bound, were stacked everywhere. Two chairs and a small table held their share, and several were stacked next to the bed. Nexus history, magicka, tomes describing other worlds and their own histories and peoples, fiction, poetry, war tactics--any subject imaginable. Not all were in English, and many were in languages that weren't familiar. There were no notebooks or writing implements, no laptop, nothing to take notes of any sort. The lone inhabitant of the room doesn't forget easily.
Currently, he's sleeping, a book open next to him and the lamp nearby lit, harshly bright against the cool warmth of the rest of the room. In slumber, he doesn't seem a god at all, only a man.
And he snores, but rather quietly.
