05-17-2013, 04:10 PM
The magi in his vicinity – maybe even the consors – can feel the weaving that is happening in the backseat as the van turns down the highways and byways of Denver. The sound of his stomach grumbling in protest seems to solidify, the urge of his being to be filled and sustained radiating outwards as they drive. Jim? Jim is silent. He focuses on an unforeseen destination. He focuses on his own want. Maybe a part of him focuses on the heat from Sid's hand, stirring deeper passions. And then he transcends outward to the wake of urges this creates, a moving ward that reaches out to play with the minds of those that might follow them.
Drawing law enforcement to stop, take a moment, and grab a cliche donut or some fast food. Maybe pull over and take a nap in one of the speed traps until their radios come alive. The hounds that would be hot on their trail, he hopes, will be drawn to instead indulge their baser instincts. Gluttony. Sloth. Maybe even lust, if there is a nearby girl or boyfriend to spend an unscheduled 'cigarette break.' And not bring their wrath down upon the magi he has surrounded himself with.
That same awareness that allows those who sit about him in the car to feel his weaving into the Tapestry, the echoes of his avatar laden with an addled resonance, might also sense an emotion on his face when it finally rises. That contortion, the shamed turn of his shoulders coupled with it, is that of guilt. He is not so much fearful for himself, but for those that surround him. The ones he shares a ride with, the one that had come to offer her own protection – Mara. The one who pats his back – Sid. The consors that were dragged into this.
Despite his apparent discomfort, again curling up as pangs and cramps grip his inside – his face is reddened with pinpoints of blood beneath its surface from engorged pores and his eyes shot red with the stuff – it's not until the hotel that Jim eats. Drinks. Whatever snacks are there he devours. The effects of the drugs have faded. But not for long.
Another dose spreading across his tongue. Another drop from the iodine-brown vial he pulls from his pocket. This one, this indulgence of vie, not hidden in the bathroom like before they'd headed out to the warehouse. He draws the motel curtains. He turns up the sputtering little air conditioning unit built into the lower wall, and sits across from it on the ground as he pulls his knees to his chest.
He shuts his eyes. Turns on. Tunes in. Drops away from his surroundings.
And begins another weaving as the earlier one fades away. One with a new purpose. One with new and – when he is finished – impressive strength.
When he is finished, every corner of the place is saturated with his resonance. His stoicism lends the cracked walls and fading paint the reassuring heft of a fortress. To the undisciplined? His addled and erratic attentions – well, it's hard to not cycle through the channels on the television, and maybe forget what task you're in the middle of beginning. And the psychedelic nature of his unhinged psyche will no doubt make for interesting daydreams and tinged REM sleep.
When Jim is finished his head is bobbing with fatigue. And beneath the simple lack of rest is a deeper tiredness. He'd given more than a bit of himself over the course of the night. The willwork had been a great feat, the crafting palpable in its strength to all within the ward, but it had also been a great labor.
He is finished in more ways than one. He pulls himself onto one of the beds. He pulls a pillow under his head, sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt clinging to him. He manages to give Jake a final glance, a final appraisal, before looking to Serafine.
"Can you? Can... Can you tell them what we saw." Again his words nearly disjointed. His eyes visibly heavy before they close. Whether or not he has drifted off to sleep is anyone's guess. His breathing is deep and steady.
Drawing law enforcement to stop, take a moment, and grab a cliche donut or some fast food. Maybe pull over and take a nap in one of the speed traps until their radios come alive. The hounds that would be hot on their trail, he hopes, will be drawn to instead indulge their baser instincts. Gluttony. Sloth. Maybe even lust, if there is a nearby girl or boyfriend to spend an unscheduled 'cigarette break.' And not bring their wrath down upon the magi he has surrounded himself with.
That same awareness that allows those who sit about him in the car to feel his weaving into the Tapestry, the echoes of his avatar laden with an addled resonance, might also sense an emotion on his face when it finally rises. That contortion, the shamed turn of his shoulders coupled with it, is that of guilt. He is not so much fearful for himself, but for those that surround him. The ones he shares a ride with, the one that had come to offer her own protection – Mara. The one who pats his back – Sid. The consors that were dragged into this.
Despite his apparent discomfort, again curling up as pangs and cramps grip his inside – his face is reddened with pinpoints of blood beneath its surface from engorged pores and his eyes shot red with the stuff – it's not until the hotel that Jim eats. Drinks. Whatever snacks are there he devours. The effects of the drugs have faded. But not for long.
Another dose spreading across his tongue. Another drop from the iodine-brown vial he pulls from his pocket. This one, this indulgence of vie, not hidden in the bathroom like before they'd headed out to the warehouse. He draws the motel curtains. He turns up the sputtering little air conditioning unit built into the lower wall, and sits across from it on the ground as he pulls his knees to his chest.
He shuts his eyes. Turns on. Tunes in. Drops away from his surroundings.
And begins another weaving as the earlier one fades away. One with a new purpose. One with new and – when he is finished – impressive strength.
When he is finished, every corner of the place is saturated with his resonance. His stoicism lends the cracked walls and fading paint the reassuring heft of a fortress. To the undisciplined? His addled and erratic attentions – well, it's hard to not cycle through the channels on the television, and maybe forget what task you're in the middle of beginning. And the psychedelic nature of his unhinged psyche will no doubt make for interesting daydreams and tinged REM sleep.
When Jim is finished his head is bobbing with fatigue. And beneath the simple lack of rest is a deeper tiredness. He'd given more than a bit of himself over the course of the night. The willwork had been a great feat, the crafting palpable in its strength to all within the ward, but it had also been a great labor.
He is finished in more ways than one. He pulls himself onto one of the beds. He pulls a pillow under his head, sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt clinging to him. He manages to give Jake a final glance, a final appraisal, before looking to Serafine.
"Can you? Can... Can you tell them what we saw." Again his words nearly disjointed. His eyes visibly heavy before they close. Whether or not he has drifted off to sleep is anyone's guess. His breathing is deep and steady.