Post by Alastair Holgrave on Sept 24, 2016 22:10:34 GMT -5
WORDS: a few | TAGS: Riley Jones |
Be prepared. That was something his grandfather had drilled into his head whenever the old geezer got the chance-- and thanks to Alastair's antiques, there was an overabundance of those chances. Like everything that had anything to do with his grandfather, he'd filtered out that little piece of advice as thoroughly as possible. It was thusly that Alastair found himself trekking back towards civilization, wincing through the pain of a cut on his arm.
He'd traveled to Nemus earlier that day (though days were incredibly hard to judge, so it might as well have been two days ago.) There was something to be said about familiarizing oneself with what was left of human civilization-- and besides, he'd been feeling antsy. And when he felt antsy, he tended to do dumb things.
One of those dumb things being the decision to trek further downstream before angling back towards Exurbia. Not only that but climbing one of the abundant tree-like plants that dotted the area-- and promptly falling because he couldn't for the life of him tell the difference between a good branch...and a dead branch.
Halfway between Nemus and Exurbia, he had a choice. Nemus-- where there may or may not have been a medic. And Exurbia-- where there was a medic. And not a very nice medic at that-- from what he'd heard. It was curiosity that made the decision for him in the long run as he turned to Exurbia and slumped through the pain of his scrapes and bruises-- as well as a sizeable cut that ran across his bicep.
It was bleeding...but Exurbia was just beyond the next hill and if he just pushed on a little further, he'd get some stitches-- come up with a good story-- and move on with his life. Soon enough (ignoring the headache brewing at his temple) he found himself at the less-than-familiar but familiar-in-that-he's-passed-it-everyday medic's station; one of the repurposed ships.
Then he stood near the hangar bay, one hand awkwardly placed over the cut on his arms, trying to ignore the way the blood slipped between his fingers and down his arm at a slow but steady sludge. Hopefully, the infamous medic would show up and give him some sort of direction-- or even better-- silently treat him.
He'd traveled to Nemus earlier that day (though days were incredibly hard to judge, so it might as well have been two days ago.) There was something to be said about familiarizing oneself with what was left of human civilization-- and besides, he'd been feeling antsy. And when he felt antsy, he tended to do dumb things.
One of those dumb things being the decision to trek further downstream before angling back towards Exurbia. Not only that but climbing one of the abundant tree-like plants that dotted the area-- and promptly falling because he couldn't for the life of him tell the difference between a good branch...and a dead branch.
Halfway between Nemus and Exurbia, he had a choice. Nemus-- where there may or may not have been a medic. And Exurbia-- where there was a medic. And not a very nice medic at that-- from what he'd heard. It was curiosity that made the decision for him in the long run as he turned to Exurbia and slumped through the pain of his scrapes and bruises-- as well as a sizeable cut that ran across his bicep.
It was bleeding...but Exurbia was just beyond the next hill and if he just pushed on a little further, he'd get some stitches-- come up with a good story-- and move on with his life. Soon enough (ignoring the headache brewing at his temple) he found himself at the less-than-familiar but familiar-in-that-he's-passed-it-everyday medic's station; one of the repurposed ships.
Then he stood near the hangar bay, one hand awkwardly placed over the cut on his arms, trying to ignore the way the blood slipped between his fingers and down his arm at a slow but steady sludge. Hopefully, the infamous medic would show up and give him some sort of direction-- or even better-- silently treat him.
NOTES ; sometimes alastair does not make the best decisions.
＃ENY ADOXOGRAPHY
