So, here is something new. This is the copy I gave my teacher as an example of my creative writing skills. I own nothing except the beautiful language. That's mine. However, if I owned anything else, they would be wearing significantly less. I have an intense desire for cake now.
Vincent paused as he raised the glass tumbler full of whisky. Cid's head had just thudded on to the table with a pronounced 'thunk'. It left the dark-haired gunman puzzled, as his foul-mouthed, lively friend had only drunk two tankards of beer since their arrival at the tavern. Usually Cid could down at least ten before the first signs of intoxication made their appearance.
The tavern they had stumbled into, Vincent exhausted from a long day of teaching rookie Turks, and Cid "absolutely tanked" from free-lance machine tinkering, was quite acceptable. It was the only establishment licensed to sell alcohol in the small town they had banished to by their respective bosses. It wasn't a flashy place, with the walls painted a dull tan, plain wooden floorboards and tables completing the Spartan aesthetic that pervaded it. However, it was well-maintained, the walls not flaking or patchy anywhere, the floor and tables shining from thorough cleaning and polishing. The delicious scents of the food on the tavern's menu mixed with the pleasant aroma of the flowers that someone, presumably the wife or daughter of the owner-proprietor, kept by the bar. Prints of landscapes and framed certificates hung on the walls, bringing hints of colour and interest to the otherwise plain room.
Vincent pondered reasons for the hard-headed mechanic's slumped, defeated posture. To the best of the ruby-eyed ex-Turk's knowledge, there were no problems in Cid's personal life. Vincent did not possess much expertise in the construction and maintenance of machinery. Apart from the level of familiarity expected from any self-respecting spy- ergo, how to fix, break and steal cars, helicopters, motorbikes and construction machinery (as well as heavy artillery and various other deadly weapons), he was not versed enough in the intricacies of his friend's profession to be aware of any problems with Cid's ongoing projects.
Vincent found his train of thought broken when Cid finally raised his head. His eyes were clear, but they, alongside the rest of his features, held an expression of deep thought which somewhat bewildered the leather-clad gunman. Cid was not given to pondering anything for long- his clothing choices alone could tell you that, as he seldom bothered to wear outfits which took more than five minutes to assemble. His curiosity finally broke the limits of his self-restraint, and at last, he spoke.
"Cid, I beseech thee, tell this concerned friend what troubles thy mind? For thou hast seemed in distress during our time together in this humble tavern, and I would fain know what I might do to alleviate thy befuddlement." Much to Vincent's surprise, having given in and asked Cid what was wrong, the words which came out of his mouth sounded odd. Exceedingly odd. So strange, in fact, that it shocked Cid out of his detached reverie.
"I'm fine, but the hell, Vin? What are you talkin' like that for?"Cid's shock was rather amusing, but Vincent was not in the mood to appreciate it right now.
"I hath no idea, bosom buddy of mine. My patterns of speech hath assumed this form without my consent, and I find that my volubility hath increased to alien heights." Vincent's concern for himself was rising now. His voice was out of control. Just what was happening to him? And Cid hadn't properly answered his question. He abruptly rose to his feet, reaching for the crimson cloak hung from a hook on the wall nearby. Turning to Cid, who was gazing at him with a somewhat glazed look as the surprise induced clarity from before seemed to have disappeared, Vincent spoke once more.
"Verily, shall we sally forth to discover from whence this strange affliction hath originated, Cid, my beloved comrade?" Vincent could feel his face twitch in irritation as the mangling of what he had meant to say continued. Never given to speaking much at any point in time, the way he was blathering on now was uncontrollable and somewhat alarming. Perhaps when fighting monsters earlier during training, there might have been a spell-caster type present? Now that he thought about it, he had heard rumours of monsters up this way with abilities oriented towards embarrassing effects on self-control. Clearly, they had more truth to them than he had expected.
Somehow, Cid had understood what Vincent had said. Both of them were experienced warriors, and knew that in cases such as this one, discovering the source of the problem was a step towards discovering how to fix it. Cid stood as well, quickly draining the last of the golden beer from his tankard. Vincent turned, heading towards the bar. In a small town such as this one, the tavern-keeper was sure to have at least basic information on local monsters which caused effects such as this one.
He cast a glance towards Cid, who still appeared deeply focused and perplexed on something within himself. Heaving an inward sigh, Vincent resolved to try and fix whatever was wrong later. For now, however, he'd concentrate on his own dilemmas. Such as finding the monster which had done this to him, and making it regret its insolence. The majority of his friends couldn't make him talk as much in three days as he had in the past three minutes. Narrowing his eyes, he made an inward vow (since he could not very well speak it aloud, there were no guarantees whatsoever for what might come out of his mouth), that the monster would pay for making him surrender the treasured taciturn silence which he had long cultivated. Oh yes, it would pay.
A sudden thought occurring to him, Vincent paused midstep before continuing on. He never had finished his whisky, after all.
Did you like it? Did you hate it? Let me know!
Dark Cat Lady of All,
Wishing-I-Was-Galadriel out!