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♠ | 017 | Voice + Spam
[Private to Alice]
Still alive? [He is the most caring warden. Obviously.]
[Private to the Admiral]
I'm running low on painkillers.
[Open CES spam]
[He's wearing navy sweats, jogging along a path through the woods. Most of the run has been thick with trees, and he's had to hop over more roots to avoid turning an ankle than he cares to count. James has been at it long enough that his breathing is rough and sweat has soaked into the front and back of his sweatshirt, turning the dark blue fabric even darker. There's a chill in the air, and he knew where the CES brought him the moment he stepped inside. He's spent the entire jog running away from Skyfall.
The trees are thinning, though, and he slows and drops to a walk, stopping to lean against the last tree. Ahead is one of the moors, and beyond that, one of the mountains he grew up around. He tilts his head back, considering its peak and rotating his right arm, rubbing at his shoulder. He wouldn't mind a climb, but doubts he'd get very far. It turns his expression even more sour, and a scowl settles on his brow before he starts forward again, down into the moor.]
[Spam for Vesper]
[He's sweaty and he smells when he comes back to the room, and the door isn't quite closed before he starts pulling off his sweatshirt. It gets tossed in the vague direction of the hamper, pants following as he heads directly for the shower. His usual shower process has been a pain since he was shot; the hot water eases the tension in his shoulder, soothes, but the cold doesn't just wake him up, it tenses his muscles and starts the ache back up again. He steps out of the shower, smelling much better than he did ten minutes ago - and with a slowly throbbing arm.
When he's dry, he wraps a towel around his waist, and stares at himself in the mirror for a moment, prodding at his scruffy jaw and trying to ignore how gray that stubble is. When he reaches for his razor and holds his arm up, though, it trembles. And he doesn't fancy shaving over his throat like that.
Clenching his fist around the folded blade, he exhales, then steps out into the suite.]
Vesper?
Still alive? [He is the most caring warden. Obviously.]
[Private to the Admiral]
I'm running low on painkillers.
[Open CES spam]
[He's wearing navy sweats, jogging along a path through the woods. Most of the run has been thick with trees, and he's had to hop over more roots to avoid turning an ankle than he cares to count. James has been at it long enough that his breathing is rough and sweat has soaked into the front and back of his sweatshirt, turning the dark blue fabric even darker. There's a chill in the air, and he knew where the CES brought him the moment he stepped inside. He's spent the entire jog running away from Skyfall.
The trees are thinning, though, and he slows and drops to a walk, stopping to lean against the last tree. Ahead is one of the moors, and beyond that, one of the mountains he grew up around. He tilts his head back, considering its peak and rotating his right arm, rubbing at his shoulder. He wouldn't mind a climb, but doubts he'd get very far. It turns his expression even more sour, and a scowl settles on his brow before he starts forward again, down into the moor.]
[Spam for Vesper]
[He's sweaty and he smells when he comes back to the room, and the door isn't quite closed before he starts pulling off his sweatshirt. It gets tossed in the vague direction of the hamper, pants following as he heads directly for the shower. His usual shower process has been a pain since he was shot; the hot water eases the tension in his shoulder, soothes, but the cold doesn't just wake him up, it tenses his muscles and starts the ache back up again. He steps out of the shower, smelling much better than he did ten minutes ago - and with a slowly throbbing arm.
When he's dry, he wraps a towel around his waist, and stares at himself in the mirror for a moment, prodding at his scruffy jaw and trying to ignore how gray that stubble is. When he reaches for his razor and holds his arm up, though, it trembles. And he doesn't fancy shaving over his throat like that.
Clenching his fist around the folded blade, he exhales, then steps out into the suite.]
Vesper?
no subject
It's as much for Ophion as her. A snake as thick as a sewer pipe needs a lot of food, and Medua was a big believer in having him hunt for himself. Rabbits beware, though the people are safe.
Still, it's probably a big surprise to have a wolf and a snake bursting out of the trees in front of you.]