Like quite a good chunk of the group, Arche has been helping to clean the dusty, dirty old place since first arriving, in his case quite nonstop and obsessively for at least about the last day. None of you who've spent significant hours around him here have ever seen him skip a meal, but he's made time for a lot less in the way of personal care today, as every time his eyes land on something grimy or cobweb-strewn his hands seem to immediately start twitching to fix it again. In the dark street clothes he obtained for sneaking around Sa-Hareth rather than his battle robes, he's got his sleeves rolled up and has just been roaming from room to room with mop and bucket and cleaning rags in hand.
Right at the moment, however, it seems what's been getting to him the most are the rats. He's standing on the back porch of one part of the house in the midday chill, dumping another unpleasant little corpse into an even more unpleasant little pile, scowling down at the mess of dead rats he's made with dirty hands and an irritable glance as he tries to decide what to do with all of them.
"...ugh. Should I just cart these to the edge of the property and have done with it?..."
He mutters the words to himself with a scowl and -- hearing a faint cheep behind him -- turns to send another quick jolt of electricity through the chewed-out rat hole at the bottom of the outer wall. There's a single tiny screech before the outdoors is briefly silent again.
B. Training.
It's not too horrendously cold inside this big empty barn, and he's really let himself lax over the last month here. He used to get up and train and meditate for hours every morning as an apprentice... then at least an hour daily... then as he got busier, only a couple days out of the week... But letting himself go an entire month without properly disciplined practice is just getting unexcusably sloppy. His old master would be appalled at him -- stars rest her backstabbing, black little soul.
So he's out here before the farm entirely loses that watery pale sun for the day, and he sat for a good hour of meditation reaching out to touch the Force, and now he has his lightsaber lit -- filling the expanse with a neon purple glow and low bass buzz as he runs through familiar practice exercises, fends off imaginary opponents. For obvious reasons, he hasn't invited anybody to practice along with him; it would be a shame to ruin any of the other nice useful weapons they've brought here by putting a laser sword through them. Not that he's never trained with a practice blade in his life, but there's nothing quite like holding the real thing.
With a flick of his wrist he sends some little bits of debris up off the ground hurtling through the air in different directions, twisting forward and around to catch them with blows of the saber. Not quite as good doing it himself as having a partner or a convenient droid, but it'll have to suffice.
As the last one plops back down to the ground in smaller, jagged bits, he looks over his shoulder to raise a brow right in your direction.
"What? Not in your way, am I?"
((Unless you have no soul or the like, hi Winnie, in which case he hasn't sensed you yet.))
C. Night.
He's standing in that open back doorway of the big old farmhouse again.
He knows he shouldn't be letting out precious warmth. He knows he should turn around and go straight inside. This is incredibly foolish.
But it speaks to him.
Like the whisper of a powerful ghost or the lure of the Dark Side itself. It whispers. He's not entirely sure who he's hearing, right now. The second he thinks he has a handle on that tone, that timbre, it seems to change. One of the spirits who was most reluctant to leave him alone. Someone else who he misses very much. Someone else who's probably looking for him right now.
It's so hard to tear his attention away.
"...can you hear her, too?" he murmurs, a little hoarse, in your general direction.
D. Bring Your Own
Anything that comes to mind, or continuations of previous interactions, are quite welcome.
no subject
Like quite a good chunk of the group, Arche has been helping to clean the dusty, dirty old place since first arriving, in his case quite nonstop and obsessively for at least about the last day. None of you who've spent significant hours around him here have ever seen him skip a meal, but he's made time for a lot less in the way of personal care today, as every time his eyes land on something grimy or cobweb-strewn his hands seem to immediately start twitching to fix it again. In the dark street clothes he obtained for sneaking around Sa-Hareth rather than his battle robes, he's got his sleeves rolled up and has just been roaming from room to room with mop and bucket and cleaning rags in hand.
Right at the moment, however, it seems what's been getting to him the most are the rats. He's standing on the back porch of one part of the house in the midday chill, dumping another unpleasant little corpse into an even more unpleasant little pile, scowling down at the mess of dead rats he's made with dirty hands and an irritable glance as he tries to decide what to do with all of them.
"...ugh. Should I just cart these to the edge of the property and have done with it?..."
He mutters the words to himself with a scowl and -- hearing a faint cheep behind him -- turns to send another quick jolt of electricity through the chewed-out rat hole at the bottom of the outer wall. There's a single tiny screech before the outdoors is briefly silent again.
B. Training.
It's not too horrendously cold inside this big empty barn, and he's really let himself lax over the last month here. He used to get up and train and meditate for hours every morning as an apprentice... then at least an hour daily... then as he got busier, only a couple days out of the week... But letting himself go an entire month without properly disciplined practice is just getting unexcusably sloppy. His old master would be appalled at him -- stars rest her backstabbing, black little soul.
So he's out here before the farm entirely loses that watery pale sun for the day, and he sat for a good hour of meditation reaching out to touch the Force, and now he has his lightsaber lit -- filling the expanse with a neon purple glow and low bass buzz as he runs through familiar practice exercises, fends off imaginary opponents. For obvious reasons, he hasn't invited anybody to practice along with him; it would be a shame to ruin any of the other nice useful weapons they've brought here by putting a laser sword through them. Not that he's never trained with a practice blade in his life, but there's nothing quite like holding the real thing.
With a flick of his wrist he sends some little bits of debris up off the ground hurtling through the air in different directions, twisting forward and around to catch them with blows of the saber. Not quite as good doing it himself as having a partner or a convenient droid, but it'll have to suffice.
As the last one plops back down to the ground in smaller, jagged bits, he looks over his shoulder to raise a brow right in your direction.
"What? Not in your way, am I?"
((Unless you have no soul or the like, hi Winnie, in which case he hasn't sensed you yet.))
C. Night.
He's standing in that open back doorway of the big old farmhouse again.
He knows he shouldn't be letting out precious warmth. He knows he should turn around and go straight inside. This is incredibly foolish.
But it speaks to him.
Like the whisper of a powerful ghost or the lure of the Dark Side itself. It whispers. He's not entirely sure who he's hearing, right now. The second he thinks he has a handle on that tone, that timbre, it seems to change. One of the spirits who was most reluctant to leave him alone. Someone else who he misses very much. Someone else who's probably looking for him right now.
It's so hard to tear his attention away.
"...can you hear her, too?" he murmurs, a little hoarse, in your general direction.
D. Bring Your Own
Anything that comes to mind, or continuations of previous interactions, are quite welcome.