Muscle Memory (Damion)
Sep. 17th, 2010 04:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cepheiTitle: Muscle Memory (Damion)
Summery: Short character study, I'm still trying to get to know him.
Notes: Started out as a piece of a much larger project. I'm not sure it fits anymore, but I liked it enough that I didn't want to loose it.
Muscle Memory
The bark of the tree cut into his fingers, rough and thick as the rock bed past the fall line of the lake back home. There was a comfort in that familiarity. A type of home he managed to find no matter where he was; one he searched for without conscious thought. He shifted his weight back and leaned into it rubbing his thumb over the crest of one of the protrusions; the indentations in his skin and the spreading numbness would linger as long as an hour afterward.
The horizon beyond The Break rambled at a steady pace of trees that patched up and down as the ground adjusted itself to the breathe of the land. There was probably a cave tucked into The Break's wall within a klick of where he was crouched, he could almost feel the rock of the wall stretch and wake beneath him. The hunt would begin soon. It would not do to stay here for long.
The dane a yard or so to his right stood motionless, ears perked and nose to the wind, adjusting only once when the loose dirt shifted under her paw. There was moisture in the air, it would soon rain. Difficult to travel in, but it would mask their trail.
He surveyed the land one last time before pulling back. The large dog shuffled over and nosed his palm, laving the marks with her tongue, paying special attention to the joint of his thumb which was sore and dark (he hoped it would bruise) before heading back into the darkness of the woods.
A knife made short work of the outer layer of one of the knobs on the tree. To break the wood he had to lever the tip of the blade into one of the rivets in the grain and force his weight against it, cracking off a strip as long as his palm and just wide enough he couldn't close his fist with it in his hand. The bark disappeared into his satchel where he might cling to it should the need arise. With time it would break apart, flakes and splinters peeling off as it rotted, succumbing to the inevitable death of one too soon pulled from it's roots. In a few weeks the beautiful cut of the bark's feel would be ruined.
He would begin carving it in the morning.
Summery: Short character study, I'm still trying to get to know him.
Notes: Started out as a piece of a much larger project. I'm not sure it fits anymore, but I liked it enough that I didn't want to loose it.
Muscle Memory
The bark of the tree cut into his fingers, rough and thick as the rock bed past the fall line of the lake back home. There was a comfort in that familiarity. A type of home he managed to find no matter where he was; one he searched for without conscious thought. He shifted his weight back and leaned into it rubbing his thumb over the crest of one of the protrusions; the indentations in his skin and the spreading numbness would linger as long as an hour afterward.
The horizon beyond The Break rambled at a steady pace of trees that patched up and down as the ground adjusted itself to the breathe of the land. There was probably a cave tucked into The Break's wall within a klick of where he was crouched, he could almost feel the rock of the wall stretch and wake beneath him. The hunt would begin soon. It would not do to stay here for long.
The dane a yard or so to his right stood motionless, ears perked and nose to the wind, adjusting only once when the loose dirt shifted under her paw. There was moisture in the air, it would soon rain. Difficult to travel in, but it would mask their trail.
He surveyed the land one last time before pulling back. The large dog shuffled over and nosed his palm, laving the marks with her tongue, paying special attention to the joint of his thumb which was sore and dark (he hoped it would bruise) before heading back into the darkness of the woods.
A knife made short work of the outer layer of one of the knobs on the tree. To break the wood he had to lever the tip of the blade into one of the rivets in the grain and force his weight against it, cracking off a strip as long as his palm and just wide enough he couldn't close his fist with it in his hand. The bark disappeared into his satchel where he might cling to it should the need arise. With time it would break apart, flakes and splinters peeling off as it rotted, succumbing to the inevitable death of one too soon pulled from it's roots. In a few weeks the beautiful cut of the bark's feel would be ruined.
He would begin carving it in the morning.