Writing Log #4
Jan. 18th, 2005 11:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kilroyThis one I don't expect anyone else to even vaguely understand, as it has to do with my Mage character. But it's writing, and it's official, so I'm posting it.
August lets himself collapse onto the couch, pulling heavy limbs up to rest on the cushions. He closes his eyes and wills himself to sink down into the softness and the dark.
In the meeting room in his mind he finds the Mayor shuffling papers. The Mayor's hand pulls absently at his beard as he looks up at August. "The Watcher's not going to be happy with you." August sighs and sits down across the broad oak table. "I know," he replies, "I don't think either of us expected that one to be quite so... bright. I'll apologize when I see him again."
The Mayor nods. "It wasn't your fault, and I'm pretty sure he knows it. He's just going to be a little huffy." He pauses thoughtfully, looks at August. "You here to dismiss us for the day?"
"Yes," August says. "It's time. Tell the others to go home. I'll see most of you again tomorrow." The Mayor straightens one last stack of papers, smiles. He says, "Hopefully tomorrow will be a little quieter. I've got other work to do, you know." August smiles back. "Thank you," he says gratefully. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
And the Mayor leaves August alone inside the mansions of his mind, going to whatever strangeness in the subconscious he calls his home. They all have their places deep within the mindscape; August knows better than to probe too deeply to see where it is exactly that they go. There are some things about oneself that should always be a mystery.
But this place... more than any other, this mansion is a symbol of who he is. The fabric of the place is made of memories, organized into shapes and patterns by his will. It is here that he goes to remind himself of who he is; to walk the hallways and climb the stairs, to look at the pictures and stoke the fires. When he goes too far into another mind, it is here that he can rediscover his center. And when he is under attack, it is from here that he commands his forces.
August comes here to see that the household of his consciousness runs smoothly; to move furniture and adjust contracts, to put away the photos on the walls and replace them with new ones. It is the first place he comes at the beginning of each day, and the last place he goes. Now he completes his rounds, turns out all the lamps, locks the place behind him, and prepares to leave. Tonight, he visualizes a river beside the house, with a small rowboat with no oars. He steps into it, casts off the line, and lets himself be dragged by the current into dreams. He fades into the lands of the unconscious with a tired smile, waiting to see what waits for him there. And behind him, the house remains: waiting.
August lets himself collapse onto the couch, pulling heavy limbs up to rest on the cushions. He closes his eyes and wills himself to sink down into the softness and the dark.
In the meeting room in his mind he finds the Mayor shuffling papers. The Mayor's hand pulls absently at his beard as he looks up at August. "The Watcher's not going to be happy with you." August sighs and sits down across the broad oak table. "I know," he replies, "I don't think either of us expected that one to be quite so... bright. I'll apologize when I see him again."
The Mayor nods. "It wasn't your fault, and I'm pretty sure he knows it. He's just going to be a little huffy." He pauses thoughtfully, looks at August. "You here to dismiss us for the day?"
"Yes," August says. "It's time. Tell the others to go home. I'll see most of you again tomorrow." The Mayor straightens one last stack of papers, smiles. He says, "Hopefully tomorrow will be a little quieter. I've got other work to do, you know." August smiles back. "Thank you," he says gratefully. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
And the Mayor leaves August alone inside the mansions of his mind, going to whatever strangeness in the subconscious he calls his home. They all have their places deep within the mindscape; August knows better than to probe too deeply to see where it is exactly that they go. There are some things about oneself that should always be a mystery.
But this place... more than any other, this mansion is a symbol of who he is. The fabric of the place is made of memories, organized into shapes and patterns by his will. It is here that he goes to remind himself of who he is; to walk the hallways and climb the stairs, to look at the pictures and stoke the fires. When he goes too far into another mind, it is here that he can rediscover his center. And when he is under attack, it is from here that he commands his forces.
August comes here to see that the household of his consciousness runs smoothly; to move furniture and adjust contracts, to put away the photos on the walls and replace them with new ones. It is the first place he comes at the beginning of each day, and the last place he goes. Now he completes his rounds, turns out all the lamps, locks the place behind him, and prepares to leave. Tonight, he visualizes a river beside the house, with a small rowboat with no oars. He steps into it, casts off the line, and lets himself be dragged by the current into dreams. He fades into the lands of the unconscious with a tired smile, waiting to see what waits for him there. And behind him, the house remains: waiting.