( The tow-headed fellow to his right has slipped something into his drink — it's begun to fizzle and pop into a lurid orange color. Roy is a shifty pair of dark eyes reflected gold in the low light of the banquet hall, a pair of clenched hands folded with uneasy grace over the tabletop. He feels like an interloper, but he's always been an interloper in some form or fashion, hasn't he? In the fine print if not in the bold-faced headings. Roy Walker, interloper extraordinaire. How's that for a brand spankin' new CV.
Maybe it's the morphine. Maybe the kid finally managed to snag something other than those sugar pills, or maybe the good reverend finally took pity on him and found him something more potent than fucking holy water. That would explain it: the hallucinations, the orange-colored cola. The pretty opal-eyed fae woman weaving spidersilk between her fingers. She has delicate fingers, long and dark, ending in nails filed to glimmering points. The shadow of her hands across the table dips into the pool of Roy's own shadow, and he shudders, suddenly overly warm — )
Damn. ( murmurs the interloper extraordinaire. He pushes back his chair, discomfited, then stumbles (what the hell did they do with his wheelchair — ?). And then he sweeps to the side, accidentally knocking over his goblet in a grand arc of color. The wooden table begins to smoke under the liquid. )
Goddamn it.
( Then, a heavy glance askance, his grip white-knuckled on the edge of the table. ) Did I — ?
roy walker ( the fall )
Maybe it's the morphine. Maybe the kid finally managed to snag something other than those sugar pills, or maybe the good reverend finally took pity on him and found him something more potent than fucking holy water. That would explain it: the hallucinations, the orange-colored cola. The pretty opal-eyed fae woman weaving spidersilk between her fingers. She has delicate fingers, long and dark, ending in nails filed to glimmering points. The shadow of her hands across the table dips into the pool of Roy's own shadow, and he shudders, suddenly overly warm — )
Damn. ( murmurs the interloper extraordinaire. He pushes back his chair, discomfited, then stumbles (what the hell did they do with his wheelchair — ?). And then he sweeps to the side, accidentally knocking over his goblet in a grand arc of color. The wooden table begins to smoke under the liquid. )
Goddamn it.
( Then, a heavy glance askance, his grip white-knuckled on the edge of the table. ) Did I — ?