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August 28, 2020Bjorn hoisted the rucksack further up his shoulders, rolling his eyes when he felt the water splosh across his backside, soaking the reinforced seat of his tactical trousers. Whatever stretches of cloth he’d managed to keep dry despite splashing around the waterlogged halls of the cathedral for the better part of six hours were now awash, heavy and uncomfortable against his skin. Whilst there were many bodily advantages to being a vampire, even death couldn’t keep chafing at bay. Just as well, he thought to himself with an irritated click of his tongue, eager to hasten his return home. The remaining water trickled out the rucksack and down his back, an unpleasant sensation akin to nails on a chalkboard rather than the sensual touch of a lover.
The tome, rolled tightly into his back pocket for safe keeping, was sturdy, no worse for wear from the surprise inundation; the fae symbols came to life as he incanted them with a practiced tongue. The feeling of being transported from where he stood one moment and landed the next was still as strange as the first time he’d used such an object.
The landing by the ritual table was fairing less well than the tome, each arrival wearing down the stone. Bjorn stepped off the eroded step onto the floating hardwood planks he’d installed throughout the front room; they too were wearing down from impact and the unending slew of detritus he brought back with each homecoming. Soon enough he’d have to reconsider his setup, though renovations seemed pointless; best spend his efforts making the rest of his home feel inviting. It was this very rest of the house that he wished to spare the mess from when he dropped the rucksack and began to strip down to his skivvies. He felt no shame in moving from the front room towards his own—stopping first at the oversized counter spanning the length of the wall from the crafting table to the forge to upend his rucksack.
“Cali?” he called out as he made his way down the hall, expecting her to be in the backroom where the open kitchen and lounging area represented the heart of his home. Without waiting for a response Bjorn veered off into an adjacent hallway, towards his room. He sought to dump his sodden clothes into the washing machine—kept in his bathroom, then take a much-needed shower before settling in for the rest of the morning. It never bode well to leave things to later, all his willpower never enough to keep him awake past dawn.
Less than five minutes later, the telepath was retracing his steps, barefoot and careful to avoid the track of water that’d yet to dry. Bjorn took a left and continued down the main hallway, one hand pulling on the hem of a ratty oversized jumper while the other carelessly rubbed a small towel across his wet curls. Perhaps he’d ask her to cut it, trusting the steadiness of her hand more than he did Connor’s.
“Hey,” he greeted, tilting his head to the side to shake the water out of his ear.
The tome, rolled tightly into his back pocket for safe keeping, was sturdy, no worse for wear from the surprise inundation; the fae symbols came to life as he incanted them with a practiced tongue. The feeling of being transported from where he stood one moment and landed the next was still as strange as the first time he’d used such an object.
The landing by the ritual table was fairing less well than the tome, each arrival wearing down the stone. Bjorn stepped off the eroded step onto the floating hardwood planks he’d installed throughout the front room; they too were wearing down from impact and the unending slew of detritus he brought back with each homecoming. Soon enough he’d have to reconsider his setup, though renovations seemed pointless; best spend his efforts making the rest of his home feel inviting. It was this very rest of the house that he wished to spare the mess from when he dropped the rucksack and began to strip down to his skivvies. He felt no shame in moving from the front room towards his own—stopping first at the oversized counter spanning the length of the wall from the crafting table to the forge to upend his rucksack.
“Cali?” he called out as he made his way down the hall, expecting her to be in the backroom where the open kitchen and lounging area represented the heart of his home. Without waiting for a response Bjorn veered off into an adjacent hallway, towards his room. He sought to dump his sodden clothes into the washing machine—kept in his bathroom, then take a much-needed shower before settling in for the rest of the morning. It never bode well to leave things to later, all his willpower never enough to keep him awake past dawn.
Less than five minutes later, the telepath was retracing his steps, barefoot and careful to avoid the track of water that’d yet to dry. Bjorn took a left and continued down the main hallway, one hand pulling on the hem of a ratty oversized jumper while the other carelessly rubbed a small towel across his wet curls. Perhaps he’d ask her to cut it, trusting the steadiness of her hand more than he did Connor’s.
“Hey,” he greeted, tilting his head to the side to shake the water out of his ear.
