Verlyrus
DragonFable Boxcat
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Vert felt the warm blood, moist under his clenched hand and sticky against his wounded abdomen. Panting heavily, he leaned back into the shade of the immaculate steel wall that loomed into the unreachable sky, a border in a wide alley, marking the edge of the city. Lifting his light grey shirt to inspect the gash, he blinked as the city’s cool breeze hit his face. He gingerly prodded the skin around the wound, more curious than frightened. He had never seen an injury this severe before. Scrapes and bruises were commonplace; he had had his share of them growing up in the steel city under the watchful eyes of the Silvithrim, but this cut, (about as long as his first finger, he measured) was beyond anything he had ever imagined. Glancing toward the air and light above, he wondered briefly as to where the Guardians were. Despite his limited experience with injury, he was certain, by some ancient and internal instinct, that loosing this dark red sticky substance was probably not beneficial to his survival.
Perhaps they are dealing with the strangers first, he thought. He looked down at the wound again, watching the blood on his shirt dry, and wondering in his mind of his strangely dressed assailants, swift in their stiff brown clothes, when he saw the shadow around him darken.
At last, the Guardians come, he whispered to himself, and raised his head. The alley was bright in its emptiness. A movement flashed quickly in the corner of his eyes- to the right, now the left. He closed his eyes to blink, felt his head wrapped in a foul smelling cloth, and found himself sinking into night.
Vert drifted slowly through the miasma of is thoughts. He had woken up, as usual, into the light of his quarters. It was a small, grey, square, room, with about enough area for him to lie down and stretch his arms out over his head in each direction. His narrow cot took up one corner of the sparsely decorated room. There was a touchpanel and transport cube system with its clear sliding door in the wall across from his bed, and a wash and waste “WW” receptacle to the left of it. The transport cube system embedded in the wall was about half Vert’s height, and was placed at waist level, to allow easy access to any incoming contents. The WW was a curious contraption, where by pressing a button, water would flow in a quick stream from chest height down to a funnel on the floor. On the side facing the foot of his bed was the door, locked until his appointed departure and arrival times. A small shrine with a fountain of silver liquid bubbled to the right of the door. Vert stood up and walked over to the WW. He cleaned himself, and pressed the button on the touch panel that ordered his daily clothes. The transport cube hummed lightly for couple seconds, and with a faint beep, the cube’s door slid open. Yellow for the juniors, grey for the apprentices, red for seniors, and black for the ever-watching Guardians, Vert recalled from his junior teachings. He quickly removed the light towel and clothes, dried off, and dressed.
The darkness shifted. It was after moonfall now, and the light of the sun reflected off of every building surface in the city. Vert was late for closing and he knew it. Running lightly down the street, he received many stern glances from seniors in their red robes as they saw his grey apprentice’s tunic drifting by. Vert raced through the streets of red to his building. The doors opened, and Vert, despite knowing that it was far too late to make any difference, ran through the abandoned hallways to his door, where his attempts to palm it open were deterred by a simple beep. As expected, the wall to his right slid open its access panel and a robotic arm snaked out for ID verification. He obligingly put out his hand, and a small needle at the end of the arm pierced his skin. He waited patiently as the arm retracted, and dreaded the consequences of his lapse in time judgment. Extra duties perhaps, maybe cleaning the funnel WW again or maybe- His thoughts were cut short by the door’s beep of rejection. He stared. This was the correct door, there was no doubt, the number, 452, was correct. He placed his palm against the door’s smooth surface, and watched the robotic arm slither out. He heard a noise behind him, a footstep, and turned, surprised.
Perhaps they are dealing with the strangers first, he thought. He looked down at the wound again, watching the blood on his shirt dry, and wondering in his mind of his strangely dressed assailants, swift in their stiff brown clothes, when he saw the shadows around him darken.
At last, the Guardians come, he whispered to himself, and raised his head. The alley was bright in its emptiness. A movement flashed quickly in the corner of his eyes- to the right, now the left. He closed his eyes to blink, felt his head wrapped in a foul smelling cloth, and found himself sinking into light.
EDIT: Took out duplicated paragraphs.
< Message edited by Verlyrus -- 7/10/2010 22:55:39 >
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