Dancing in the Shadows
Chris Coffin
www.lostinthefilm.com
One:
A Walk at Night
Palin idly swirled his finger in the lingering droplets of condensation from his glass of iced water. The distortions of the grain of the wooden table entertained him endlessly. His goblet of red wine stood beside it, neither half-full or half-empty; It was pretty much empty for the fourth or fifth time. His plate of lemon and pepper seasoned quail and rice lay virtually untouched. He felt like putting his face into the aromatic meal and laying there for a few moments.
He hated these things. Social events were usually his bag, but sitting at a table being forced to sit and act like you cared about what the speaker was saying was often too much. And he had to look dignified. That always sucked. And what was worse, was since the Battle of Pieta Taris, he was always one of the guests of honor, or in the worst case, the speaker. He hated that even more.
Suddenly he was jerked out of his reverie by the eruption of a wave of clapping. He figured that was his cue to clap. And smile. Light, he hated these things.
After almost another hour of droning voices and brief bursts of clapping, it was over; the seminar portion, at least. Now was the time to mingle. Mingle. Whoever birthed that word should hold still and let Palin hit them. Repeatedly. Mingling sounded dirty. It sounded like sticky fingers and teenage angst. Not something that you'd do at formal dinner parties. Well, not something that MOST people would do at dinner parties. He had his suspicions about the glow that two of the caterers shared. Whatever the case may be, he stood and headed straight for the punch bowl. He was intercepted half way to the table by the glowing girl, carrying a tray covered in glasses of cheap champagne. What a typically educational event; intellects and cheap booze. He took a flute of the champagne and gave the caterer a knowing look. If she was going to get some, she ought not to gloat about it.
Slowly, he made his way into the crowd to mingle. He hated having to remember people. For some reason, he stood out in people's minds. It could be the fact that he saved the lives of most of the people in the room and all; one could never know for sure. However, in most cases, the person who's name he was supposed to remember was not as memorable to him. For cases like these, he had a simple formula: Smile warmly, clasp hand, nod greeting, ask how they've been. After a moment, sigh regretfully, and make an excuse to leave. Lather, rinse, repeat.
This evening's event was at the Academy in Caemlyn. He was the guest of honor of the Chancellor for an evening of discussion about the future of the Academy, and opportunities for new courses of study. Whoop-de-doo. As he masturbated socially and smiled warmly, shaking hands and playing the role, he thought of the bars of the outer city, and the fields of the Borderlands with a heavy heart.
Light, but he hated this place. It must be five our six hours past the last bell, and he was just walking out of the Academy. He found that being around the "beautiful people" made him very uncomfortable. He couldn't decide whether it was the fact that they considered him one of them, or that a part of him was drawn to that lifestyle that bothered him. The royal treatment fit him like a well-worn glove; like the trousers that were so worn that you couldn't wear them in public. He didn't like that, he decided.
His footfalls on the cobblestones rung heavily in the night air. He walked through the nearly deserted side streets of Caemlyn with a slight sway. He had emptied his flute of champagne one too many times, apparently. He was staying with a friend tonight; Peta had offered as soon as he mentioned his visit. He accepted gratefully. The public sphere of an inn would have been too much to handle on a night like tonight. The stone paths and the warm glow of lanterns lead him through the warren of small abodes and shops. As he neared the crossways to the community of Peta's residence, he heard a dissonant pattern to the echoes of his feet.
Someone was following him.
Through the warm fuzz of intoxication his instincts started to take control. He consciously kept his pace regular, not wanting to let his pursuers know that he was onto them. He started to duck and turn, trying to catch a glimpse of his followers when he turned. He was beginning to grow frustrated. He knew that they didn't know who they were messing with. When he caught himself humming stealthy tunes and sneaking around corners of buildings, he realized that there was no point in trying to avoid his followers. If they intended to confront him, they would - it would be in his far better interests to confront them on his playing field. He jumped into a window. He cursed under his breath as he lost his footing on a drapery. When he settled, he waited. After a short few minutes a group of three men passed. They were carrying a stave, a club, and a dagger, respectively. He waited to a count of ten and dropped into the street behind them. As his feet hit, he channeled. Gripping saidin, he wove flows of air and knocked the thugs in the head; the sickening smack of a baseball bat on a side of raw meat. They crumbled. As he approached their bodies, he wondered for a moment if that had been excessive. But then he remembered that he didn't care.
Street crime was not common in Caemlyn. The city had fallen from it's prestigious reputation. The alleys of the Outer City had never been respectable places, by any means, but there had been a point in not too distant memory where someone could have walked the streets of Caemlyn at night with a light heart. Gone were the days of light and trust, taken by the advance of malice.
He was so tired of killing.
Chris Coffin
www.lostinthefilm.com
One:
A Walk at Night
Palin idly swirled his finger in the lingering droplets of condensation from his glass of iced water. The distortions of the grain of the wooden table entertained him endlessly. His goblet of red wine stood beside it, neither half-full or half-empty; It was pretty much empty for the fourth or fifth time. His plate of lemon and pepper seasoned quail and rice lay virtually untouched. He felt like putting his face into the aromatic meal and laying there for a few moments.
He hated these things. Social events were usually his bag, but sitting at a table being forced to sit and act like you cared about what the speaker was saying was often too much. And he had to look dignified. That always sucked. And what was worse, was since the Battle of Pieta Taris, he was always one of the guests of honor, or in the worst case, the speaker. He hated that even more.
Suddenly he was jerked out of his reverie by the eruption of a wave of clapping. He figured that was his cue to clap. And smile. Light, he hated these things.
After almost another hour of droning voices and brief bursts of clapping, it was over; the seminar portion, at least. Now was the time to mingle. Mingle. Whoever birthed that word should hold still and let Palin hit them. Repeatedly. Mingling sounded dirty. It sounded like sticky fingers and teenage angst. Not something that you'd do at formal dinner parties. Well, not something that MOST people would do at dinner parties. He had his suspicions about the glow that two of the caterers shared. Whatever the case may be, he stood and headed straight for the punch bowl. He was intercepted half way to the table by the glowing girl, carrying a tray covered in glasses of cheap champagne. What a typically educational event; intellects and cheap booze. He took a flute of the champagne and gave the caterer a knowing look. If she was going to get some, she ought not to gloat about it.
Slowly, he made his way into the crowd to mingle. He hated having to remember people. For some reason, he stood out in people's minds. It could be the fact that he saved the lives of most of the people in the room and all; one could never know for sure. However, in most cases, the person who's name he was supposed to remember was not as memorable to him. For cases like these, he had a simple formula: Smile warmly, clasp hand, nod greeting, ask how they've been. After a moment, sigh regretfully, and make an excuse to leave. Lather, rinse, repeat.
This evening's event was at the Academy in Caemlyn. He was the guest of honor of the Chancellor for an evening of discussion about the future of the Academy, and opportunities for new courses of study. Whoop-de-doo. As he masturbated socially and smiled warmly, shaking hands and playing the role, he thought of the bars of the outer city, and the fields of the Borderlands with a heavy heart.
Light, but he hated this place. It must be five our six hours past the last bell, and he was just walking out of the Academy. He found that being around the "beautiful people" made him very uncomfortable. He couldn't decide whether it was the fact that they considered him one of them, or that a part of him was drawn to that lifestyle that bothered him. The royal treatment fit him like a well-worn glove; like the trousers that were so worn that you couldn't wear them in public. He didn't like that, he decided.
His footfalls on the cobblestones rung heavily in the night air. He walked through the nearly deserted side streets of Caemlyn with a slight sway. He had emptied his flute of champagne one too many times, apparently. He was staying with a friend tonight; Peta had offered as soon as he mentioned his visit. He accepted gratefully. The public sphere of an inn would have been too much to handle on a night like tonight. The stone paths and the warm glow of lanterns lead him through the warren of small abodes and shops. As he neared the crossways to the community of Peta's residence, he heard a dissonant pattern to the echoes of his feet.
Someone was following him.
Through the warm fuzz of intoxication his instincts started to take control. He consciously kept his pace regular, not wanting to let his pursuers know that he was onto them. He started to duck and turn, trying to catch a glimpse of his followers when he turned. He was beginning to grow frustrated. He knew that they didn't know who they were messing with. When he caught himself humming stealthy tunes and sneaking around corners of buildings, he realized that there was no point in trying to avoid his followers. If they intended to confront him, they would - it would be in his far better interests to confront them on his playing field. He jumped into a window. He cursed under his breath as he lost his footing on a drapery. When he settled, he waited. After a short few minutes a group of three men passed. They were carrying a stave, a club, and a dagger, respectively. He waited to a count of ten and dropped into the street behind them. As his feet hit, he channeled. Gripping saidin, he wove flows of air and knocked the thugs in the head; the sickening smack of a baseball bat on a side of raw meat. They crumbled. As he approached their bodies, he wondered for a moment if that had been excessive. But then he remembered that he didn't care.
Street crime was not common in Caemlyn. The city had fallen from it's prestigious reputation. The alleys of the Outer City had never been respectable places, by any means, but there had been a point in not too distant memory where someone could have walked the streets of Caemlyn at night with a light heart. Gone were the days of light and trust, taken by the advance of malice.
He was so tired of killing.