Underneath The Stars
Mar 8, 2019 11:56:35 GMT -8
Post by Saint Judas on Mar 8, 2019 11:56:35 GMT -8
The soft glow of a small candle illuminated the bed beside the window of the ranger's dorm, tucked into the corner of a small square desk. Short and thin, the flame that burned slowly and silently in the still air was not much more then a teardrop shape of yellow with a tiny orange heart, and it's light struggled to even reach the sill of the window where pale silvered light from outside seemed to form a line where it met the golden aura shed by the candle. The divide between the fire's warmth and the midnight cold darkness outside where the woods loomed dark and mysterious in the night and the sky was an empty and endless black marked only by a moon hidden by the roof of the building and a tapestry of distant pricks of starlight. A line between the comforts of the indoor and man, and the wild outside, where spirits roamed in that wicked hour where superstition ran and the dreamer's creatures of imagination ran freely through the woods, dancing amidst the shadows.
In the still silence inside the dorm, one could almost imagine time was frozen, save the ever so subtle sound of breaths being drawn in and released by the sleeping numbers stationed here for present moment and claimed by the allure of Morpheus, bringing of dreams and guide to that strange realm where impossibility took shape and the deepest wishes or fears of the mind came to life. Here one murmured, the soft syllables of his voice indistinct, though a smile touches faintly at his lips, and there one sighs deeply, movement breaking the gently suffocating stillness of the rows of forms lying all but motionless as he turns over, oblivious still to the waking world.
One remained awake still though, one who's eyes were not glazed and his lids not barring the world around him from his sight. If others were about yet in other parts of the building, he did not know nor care, but lain in that bed drenched by the dim light of that lonely candle, he kept his solitary company through the late hour. His back against the wall and the iron simple frame of his bed, a pillow braced his back from that pole's unbending curve, and donned in comfortable stretchy fabric meant for such places and times, he wore long pants of a dark grayed green, tied at the waist and coming to their natural end about his ankles, whose feet turned inwards towards each other as legs crossed while lain upon the stiff mattress underneath him. He donned no shirt, only the slim black band of a Holocaster adorning his upper body, and long inky black hair, ever so slightly shining in that faint warm light, hung loose and free, cascading down his neck and pulled about from his back over his right shoulder to keep from pinning along his back, flowing over a tanned chest, marked with a map of faint scars, old and new both, speaking of years of work and incidents, stories silently laid out of a long life lived in toil.
Weathered eyes, a steely slate grey in the candle's lonely light, flat and cold save for the faint under-laid tone of a vibrant green that flashed in a ring about dark pupils, were focused intently on lines of printed ink symbols ordered and trapped onto the thin paper confines of a page. Tough fingers touched upon the smooth face of the script and the subtle ridges that snagged on the imperceptible lines within the pads of fingertips, the well worn edges of a thick cover creased and bent under the weight of the paper bound and sealed within, the spine yet uncracked though as it resisted the deterioration of it's natural use.
Save for the silently slow, almost unnoticeable, drift of eyes from one side of the page to another, tracing each neat row of printed words, the man could have been a statue, so still was he. From time to time, a deft and practiced movement would swiftly turn the page, only the quiet 'shff' of paper sliding against paper and brushing against his digits before he would return to his previous position like he had not moved at all, content in silence and lack of motion entirely.
A faint buzz at the man's wrist, the slim device nestled there coming to life as it's screen flashed with a new notice. Silently those grey-green eyes shifted to it, noting the message that flashed there for him as it buzzed a second time. Coming to life in smooth and precise movements, gentle fingers nimbly removed the bookmark from it's home tucked between the back pages and the cover, and held the spot that had been open even as he closed the book, setting it on the small square of table beside him. Legs uncrossed and swung over the edge of the bed, bare feet touching against the polished wooden floor. In a quick procession of movements he had taken up an old and beaten leather bag and a black shirt neatly folded at the edge of the bed. Slinging the former over a broad shoulder, the newly free hand reached down to take up a pair of boots by their ends as well, folding them over the shirt before he reached towards the candle. A stray glance passed outside the window for a moment, then inward, studying the dorm as though memorizing the path.
Calloused fingers pinched around the wick, and for a moment were met with a sharp warmth. Then the candle was snuffed, and what little light had shed upon the room suffocated, with only a ghostly dim glow making suggestions in the darkness from the window's dull glow.
WC: 962
{Edits}
Mar. 8th, 2016: Header Image reside
Mar. 25th, 2016, Spelling fix, edit log added
Mar. 8th, 2016: Header Image reside
Mar. 25th, 2016, Spelling fix, edit log added