11 Ymiden, 724
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The sky was too dark, far too clouded, and unnecessarily pitched a shade darker than was needed. Kotton peered through his curtains at the sky and scoffed. He sighed. He huffed. Each exhalation was measured as nothing but disappointment. He hated being contained indoors, much less in his own house. He despised being alone, for it begged thoughts that were everything but positive. He hated dwelling and spinning round and round, negative ideas or the assumptions that arose from them like skeletons from the grave.
Thunder cracked and lightning struck with the power of blinding those who had been unfortunate enough to look at the exact place it had destined itself to strike. He had, unfortunately, been one of those people. His eyes were inflamed by the bright white light before he reflexively turned toward something dark in contrast. He closed them for a moment as he willed his eyesight to return. Once he opened them, he could still see the afterimage of the spot in the field where the lightning had struck, but was no longer blind by the brightness.
He flexed his arms, clenched his fists and bit his tongue in frustration as he continued to gaze out onto the land now under the weathers’ jurisdiction. He had wanted to go outside earlier. He had wanted to walk, run, explore, adventure, maybe even lose himself within the fields of the Sweetwine Woods or possibly drown himself in the sea of whatever river or ocean he happened to accidentally swim into. But now that the sky was putting on a temper tantrum, he couldn’t. This put him on the offensive, not because he felt threatened, but because his wishes had been dismissed. And it was all thanks to the sky.
What was he supposed to do now? He was tired of writing, very much bored with drawing, and strongly against any desire to cook or craft or repurpose. The fireplace was brewing, an enormous and equally flagrant flame that wavered similar to the way the rain fell- sideways- but it didn't entice him to read or write or craft or cook. He scrutinised the fire, took a moment to ensure it would be fine if he left it unattended. He didn’t want to have come back to a burned down house if he left which he so desperately wanted to do.
He brushed his hair back with dry hands and struck his eyebrows with his fingers, incidentally grooming them haphazardly to the wayside. It didn't matter though, because his hair fell again into his eyes right after he did so. This did absolutely nothing to help rid him of his agitation. He brushed it back once again, this time finding a new sense of irritation that would only follow him into the hallway, past the kitchen and then into the living room where both Spirit and Imogen lay with wide eyes, them fixated on a random toy that lay between them both.
He wouldn’t pester them even though he wanted to. Would playing with his pets make him feel less irritated, less depressed, less bored? He also wouldn’t attempt to calm himself by imbibing. He was better than that. Even as his brain screamed at him with the temptation of a single drop and how it would create just enough indifference in him to make it so the rain outside was anything other than a mild inconvenience, he would stand tall and flick it that very thought away, as if it were a small speck of dust he found on his shoulder.
He was still agitated though and he wasn’t sure how to get rid of it. He couldn’t drink to forget about it, he couldn’t run to get rid of it, he did feel like writing to expel it and he wasn't in the mood to cook so as to burn it, which left him with a lack of inspiration, also known as 'back at the beginning'.
Then it occurred to him that maybe he could do what he wanted. Maybe he could walk, run, explore, adventure, maybe even lose himself within the fields of the Sweetwine Woods or possibly drown himself in the sea of whatever river or ocean he happened to accidentally swim into. Outside. In the storm. In the pounding rain. With the thunder and lightning. What or who was stopping him? Anxiety? Safety? He didn’t know the numbers, but as long as he had been a scribe and as long as he had been a medic, he hadn’t once tended to a patient who had been struck by lightning (though he wasn't without understanding the dangers of electricity touching the body). And rain was such a trivial thing to consider. So he extracted his raincoat from its spot on the coat rack beside his front door, bade farewell to his companions, and dared to venture outside his place of comfort and into the town that was currently being weathered.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one to do this, for as soon as he stepped foot outside his home, he noticed several other people sauntering the sidewalks into town. This made him feel a little better- knowing that by social referencing, he found he wasn't out of his mind by being out in a storm. Next came the important question: Would he turn towards or against civilization? Such a basic thought was refreshing. He had spent far too much time secluded in his bedroom thinking and contemplating about his patients and how best to treat him that such fundamental ideas were a breath of fresh air. Eventually he decided on his destination. He was to set out into Scalvoris just as many of those individuals he had just seen do. However, instead of merely stepping indolently against the sidewalks, he chose to run instead.
He began by pumping his arms for more momentum. He checked his breathing for any irregularities and found many. He didn’t know how to rectify them so he chose to listen to his heartbeat, hoping this would aid in regulating the inconsistency of his breathwork. His feet hit the pavement in a rhythmic pattern, a pattern of consistency that made him smile. The rain pittered and pattered against the hood of his raincoat with a beat he effortlessly formed into the likes of a makeshift melody. By doing this, he was able to run easier- having something to 'listen to' as a distraction from the monotony of running.
“Bump, bump, heave, yea, pitter patter, yea, boop, beep, pound, yea, pitter patter, yea, bump, bump, heave, yea, pitter patter, yea-” he could go on and on and he did. This beat he had made was familiar of someone finding a pattern of meditation to which they could focus. And he did focus. Every stride he took, every push of his arms, every corner he turned, it was all thanks to this unconventional way of mindfulness.
The sky may have continued to darken and the onslaught of rain may have increase in intensity, but as long as Kotton had no evidence to suggest hail, no proof of the formation of a tornado and no notion of the potentiality of a hurricane, he would 'keep on keeping on'. Indifference was key. Not only did it ensure bliss, it also ensured confidence.
He rounded the corner of a local meat shoppe. He pretended not to pay attention to to the signs that announced ‘you kill it, we’ll make it edible!’ and continued his drive. He was now becoming out of breath, but he kept on running regardless, but only insofar as he was met with a crowd of people holding signs declaring various proclamations.
In this rain? he thought as he slowed his pace. He didn’t want to be caught up in such a crowd, so he adjusted his route and backtracked. Again, he rounded the corner of the meat shoppe, insistent on finding another path to take. This only lasted half a minute before there was yet another obstacle in his path. He had to stop completely in order not to run over a pedestrian.
The terrible weather was letting up at this point, which was apparently the cue for locals to start flocking the streets again. Kotton frowned and furrowed his brows, not caring who saw his agitation. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried thinking back to the peacefulness he had felt during the start of his run before opening them. Opening had been a mistake since what he found was double what had been of the population he had seen before closing his eyes.
He turned to his left where a middle aged man with a bright red beard and an astronomically huge gut stood. “Tell me, what’s going on?” he practically demanded, patience long lost since the adrenaline he had accumulated during his run had taken over his blood.
The man was taken off guard and stuttered an answer. “I-I-It’s a congratulation for the end of what might have been just a b-bad storm.”
The young man smiled, quickly finding himself in the wrong and wrought with guilt as to how aggressively he had inquired the man. He finalised his encounter with him with a genuine apology and a declaration of appreciation. After such a social transaction, it was made up in Kotton's mind that his free form running had finished. Why? Because the streets and sidewalks and even the alley ways were too populated with people that he feared running into someone and potentially hurting them. So instead of continuing, he turned around and walked himself back home where the blinds were still shut, the windows the same, the door locked tight and the steps damp from the aftermath of a rainfall that had recently ran through town.
He dredged his soaking body up the stairs of his porch and into his abode before relinquishing all parts of himself of wetness. Off went the raincoat, off went the shirt that was lying underneath. There was a shedding of pants, socks, shoes- was he forgetting anything? He shook his head like a dog to rid his hair of any extra dampness before taking a deep sigh.
He growled, still feeling like a fool for having so intensely interrogated what had seemed to be an innocent man. That’s when he realised he was still wearing his undergarments. He rid himself of those too before sluggishly limping to the bathroom. He needed a shower to cleanse himself of not only the weather but the wrongdoing he had just committed. Gosh, he was too hard on himself sometimes.
A bath was nice, sure, but he had rigged it so that pre-heated water could dribble over his head during these exact times when soaking like a vegetable in a vat of lukewarm water was crucial over dipping into a cold water rinse. The water hit his head and sparked an immediate question. He was about to begin a tangent on the weather and the likelihood of him having been struck by lightening when the water quickly turned cold. He focused then on how the chilly liquid beget his need to not think. The cold regulated his emotions and nerves more than magic ever could, and once he had started to feel better, he exited the bathroom, drawing a towel to conceal the most intimate parts of himself.
Forget supper, his bed was the only thing screaming at him that would be acknowledged. Kotton didn’t even dress himself in nighttime garments before he threw himself onto the mattress. The covers and associated blankets followed his movements before his mind fell silent with the assertion of slumber.
Thunder cracked and lightning struck with the power of blinding those who had been unfortunate enough to look at the exact place it had destined itself to strike. He had, unfortunately, been one of those people. His eyes were inflamed by the bright white light before he reflexively turned toward something dark in contrast. He closed them for a moment as he willed his eyesight to return. Once he opened them, he could still see the afterimage of the spot in the field where the lightning had struck, but was no longer blind by the brightness.
He flexed his arms, clenched his fists and bit his tongue in frustration as he continued to gaze out onto the land now under the weathers’ jurisdiction. He had wanted to go outside earlier. He had wanted to walk, run, explore, adventure, maybe even lose himself within the fields of the Sweetwine Woods or possibly drown himself in the sea of whatever river or ocean he happened to accidentally swim into. But now that the sky was putting on a temper tantrum, he couldn’t. This put him on the offensive, not because he felt threatened, but because his wishes had been dismissed. And it was all thanks to the sky.
What was he supposed to do now? He was tired of writing, very much bored with drawing, and strongly against any desire to cook or craft or repurpose. The fireplace was brewing, an enormous and equally flagrant flame that wavered similar to the way the rain fell- sideways- but it didn't entice him to read or write or craft or cook. He scrutinised the fire, took a moment to ensure it would be fine if he left it unattended. He didn’t want to have come back to a burned down house if he left which he so desperately wanted to do.
He brushed his hair back with dry hands and struck his eyebrows with his fingers, incidentally grooming them haphazardly to the wayside. It didn't matter though, because his hair fell again into his eyes right after he did so. This did absolutely nothing to help rid him of his agitation. He brushed it back once again, this time finding a new sense of irritation that would only follow him into the hallway, past the kitchen and then into the living room where both Spirit and Imogen lay with wide eyes, them fixated on a random toy that lay between them both.
He wouldn’t pester them even though he wanted to. Would playing with his pets make him feel less irritated, less depressed, less bored? He also wouldn’t attempt to calm himself by imbibing. He was better than that. Even as his brain screamed at him with the temptation of a single drop and how it would create just enough indifference in him to make it so the rain outside was anything other than a mild inconvenience, he would stand tall and flick it that very thought away, as if it were a small speck of dust he found on his shoulder.
He was still agitated though and he wasn’t sure how to get rid of it. He couldn’t drink to forget about it, he couldn’t run to get rid of it, he did feel like writing to expel it and he wasn't in the mood to cook so as to burn it, which left him with a lack of inspiration, also known as 'back at the beginning'.
Then it occurred to him that maybe he could do what he wanted. Maybe he could walk, run, explore, adventure, maybe even lose himself within the fields of the Sweetwine Woods or possibly drown himself in the sea of whatever river or ocean he happened to accidentally swim into. Outside. In the storm. In the pounding rain. With the thunder and lightning. What or who was stopping him? Anxiety? Safety? He didn’t know the numbers, but as long as he had been a scribe and as long as he had been a medic, he hadn’t once tended to a patient who had been struck by lightning (though he wasn't without understanding the dangers of electricity touching the body). And rain was such a trivial thing to consider. So he extracted his raincoat from its spot on the coat rack beside his front door, bade farewell to his companions, and dared to venture outside his place of comfort and into the town that was currently being weathered.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one to do this, for as soon as he stepped foot outside his home, he noticed several other people sauntering the sidewalks into town. This made him feel a little better- knowing that by social referencing, he found he wasn't out of his mind by being out in a storm. Next came the important question: Would he turn towards or against civilization? Such a basic thought was refreshing. He had spent far too much time secluded in his bedroom thinking and contemplating about his patients and how best to treat him that such fundamental ideas were a breath of fresh air. Eventually he decided on his destination. He was to set out into Scalvoris just as many of those individuals he had just seen do. However, instead of merely stepping indolently against the sidewalks, he chose to run instead.
He began by pumping his arms for more momentum. He checked his breathing for any irregularities and found many. He didn’t know how to rectify them so he chose to listen to his heartbeat, hoping this would aid in regulating the inconsistency of his breathwork. His feet hit the pavement in a rhythmic pattern, a pattern of consistency that made him smile. The rain pittered and pattered against the hood of his raincoat with a beat he effortlessly formed into the likes of a makeshift melody. By doing this, he was able to run easier- having something to 'listen to' as a distraction from the monotony of running.
“Bump, bump, heave, yea, pitter patter, yea, boop, beep, pound, yea, pitter patter, yea, bump, bump, heave, yea, pitter patter, yea-” he could go on and on and he did. This beat he had made was familiar of someone finding a pattern of meditation to which they could focus. And he did focus. Every stride he took, every push of his arms, every corner he turned, it was all thanks to this unconventional way of mindfulness.
The sky may have continued to darken and the onslaught of rain may have increase in intensity, but as long as Kotton had no evidence to suggest hail, no proof of the formation of a tornado and no notion of the potentiality of a hurricane, he would 'keep on keeping on'. Indifference was key. Not only did it ensure bliss, it also ensured confidence.
He rounded the corner of a local meat shoppe. He pretended not to pay attention to to the signs that announced ‘you kill it, we’ll make it edible!’ and continued his drive. He was now becoming out of breath, but he kept on running regardless, but only insofar as he was met with a crowd of people holding signs declaring various proclamations.
In this rain? he thought as he slowed his pace. He didn’t want to be caught up in such a crowd, so he adjusted his route and backtracked. Again, he rounded the corner of the meat shoppe, insistent on finding another path to take. This only lasted half a minute before there was yet another obstacle in his path. He had to stop completely in order not to run over a pedestrian.
The terrible weather was letting up at this point, which was apparently the cue for locals to start flocking the streets again. Kotton frowned and furrowed his brows, not caring who saw his agitation. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried thinking back to the peacefulness he had felt during the start of his run before opening them. Opening had been a mistake since what he found was double what had been of the population he had seen before closing his eyes.
He turned to his left where a middle aged man with a bright red beard and an astronomically huge gut stood. “Tell me, what’s going on?” he practically demanded, patience long lost since the adrenaline he had accumulated during his run had taken over his blood.
The man was taken off guard and stuttered an answer. “I-I-It’s a congratulation for the end of what might have been just a b-bad storm.”
The young man smiled, quickly finding himself in the wrong and wrought with guilt as to how aggressively he had inquired the man. He finalised his encounter with him with a genuine apology and a declaration of appreciation. After such a social transaction, it was made up in Kotton's mind that his free form running had finished. Why? Because the streets and sidewalks and even the alley ways were too populated with people that he feared running into someone and potentially hurting them. So instead of continuing, he turned around and walked himself back home where the blinds were still shut, the windows the same, the door locked tight and the steps damp from the aftermath of a rainfall that had recently ran through town.
He dredged his soaking body up the stairs of his porch and into his abode before relinquishing all parts of himself of wetness. Off went the raincoat, off went the shirt that was lying underneath. There was a shedding of pants, socks, shoes- was he forgetting anything? He shook his head like a dog to rid his hair of any extra dampness before taking a deep sigh.
He growled, still feeling like a fool for having so intensely interrogated what had seemed to be an innocent man. That’s when he realised he was still wearing his undergarments. He rid himself of those too before sluggishly limping to the bathroom. He needed a shower to cleanse himself of not only the weather but the wrongdoing he had just committed. Gosh, he was too hard on himself sometimes.
A bath was nice, sure, but he had rigged it so that pre-heated water could dribble over his head during these exact times when soaking like a vegetable in a vat of lukewarm water was crucial over dipping into a cold water rinse. The water hit his head and sparked an immediate question. He was about to begin a tangent on the weather and the likelihood of him having been struck by lightening when the water quickly turned cold. He focused then on how the chilly liquid beget his need to not think. The cold regulated his emotions and nerves more than magic ever could, and once he had started to feel better, he exited the bathroom, drawing a towel to conceal the most intimate parts of himself.
Forget supper, his bed was the only thing screaming at him that would be acknowledged. Kotton didn’t even dress himself in nighttime garments before he threw himself onto the mattress. The covers and associated blankets followed his movements before his mind fell silent with the assertion of slumber.