[There's nothing quite so disorienting as having slept enough to dream. Or, well-- perhaps that's unfair. It's very slightly more disorienting to wake up from having slept enough to dream to discover oneself somehow waking into the dream as much as anything else.
Still, at least there's coffee.
More than that, there's the faint comfort of not being entirely alone in his confusion. Other faces look as groggy and baffled as Horatio feels. Other voices murmuring over breakfast have that lost edge to their tone that echoes in Horatio's own thoughts.
And, best of all, no one seems to mind when he takes a second cup of coffee. They might not even stop him from taking a third. That's enough to brighten anyone's mood. By the time they're told there will be training? First thing in the morning? Horatio is positively contented enough to actually murmur to the person next to him:] Rather wonderful, isn't it.
ii. your scalding face
[One of his fellow Strangers had all but physically dragged him to the blackout despite a long stretch of unsure footing. The mass of them had swarmed into the inferno, falling into an odd tangle of half-coordinated rescue efforts. Another Stranger had dragged him from the flames when the dizziness of the smoke had begun to seep too deeply into his lungs and the ache of his burns had become difficult to ignore.
But, now he's been dragged out, someone really ought to stop him from stumbling his way back in. Physically, most likely. It won't take much, the way he's already staggering. Gentle shove on the back probably ought to do it.]
iii. time enough for countin'
[All in all, it's been an interesting beginning to a new life. Not quite as undignified as Spithead had been, if one had to make a tally of all the points of absolute mortification that had occurred in each instance.
It's still all a bit addling. It still helps to have something familiar to fall back on, if only for a few little quiet moments stolen here and there throughout the day.
The world still hasn't quite settled back down into itself since the explosion and assassination. The tension is distinct from the previous unease; less like the strange quiet moments at home and more like the exhausted quiet of Muzillac or Ferrol. It almost seems to be buzzing in his ears, needing to be drowned out to stop it from echoing in his own mind.
Thank goodness for being able to scrounge up a deck of cards. Shuffling them is wonderfully familiar, the motions coming as quickly and easily now as they had back in the Marquis's rooms. It's hardly as satisfying as playing an actual game, but the rhythmic flow of cards back and forth between his hands is enough of a focal point to properly clear some small portions of his mind.]
iv. wildcard
[You can catch Horatio up before training, devoting himself wholeheartedly to training, or attempting to avoid becoming caught in any social situations during most of the rest of the day--or whatever else we've discussed and I've forgotten in a fit of sleepiness! Feel free to hit me up on the plotting thread or pm or plurk!]
no subject
[There's nothing quite so disorienting as having slept enough to dream. Or, well-- perhaps that's unfair. It's very slightly more disorienting to wake up from having slept enough to dream to discover oneself somehow waking into the dream as much as anything else.
Still, at least there's coffee.
More than that, there's the faint comfort of not being entirely alone in his confusion. Other faces look as groggy and baffled as Horatio feels. Other voices murmuring over breakfast have that lost edge to their tone that echoes in Horatio's own thoughts.
And, best of all, no one seems to mind when he takes a second cup of coffee. They might not even stop him from taking a third. That's enough to brighten anyone's mood. By the time they're told there will be training? First thing in the morning? Horatio is positively contented enough to actually murmur to the person next to him:] Rather wonderful, isn't it.
ii. your scalding face
[One of his fellow Strangers had all but physically dragged him to the blackout despite a long stretch of unsure footing. The mass of them had swarmed into the inferno, falling into an odd tangle of half-coordinated rescue efforts. Another Stranger had dragged him from the flames when the dizziness of the smoke had begun to seep too deeply into his lungs and the ache of his burns had become difficult to ignore.
But, now he's been dragged out, someone really ought to stop him from stumbling his way back in. Physically, most likely. It won't take much, the way he's already staggering. Gentle shove on the back probably ought to do it.]
iii. time enough for countin'
[All in all, it's been an interesting beginning to a new life. Not quite as undignified as Spithead had been, if one had to make a tally of all the points of absolute mortification that had occurred in each instance.
It's still all a bit addling. It still helps to have something familiar to fall back on, if only for a few little quiet moments stolen here and there throughout the day.
The world still hasn't quite settled back down into itself since the explosion and assassination. The tension is distinct from the previous unease; less like the strange quiet moments at home and more like the exhausted quiet of Muzillac or Ferrol. It almost seems to be buzzing in his ears, needing to be drowned out to stop it from echoing in his own mind.
Thank goodness for being able to scrounge up a deck of cards. Shuffling them is wonderfully familiar, the motions coming as quickly and easily now as they had back in the Marquis's rooms. It's hardly as satisfying as playing an actual game, but the rhythmic flow of cards back and forth between his hands is enough of a focal point to properly clear some small portions of his mind.]
iv. wildcard
[You can catch Horatio up before training, devoting himself wholeheartedly to training, or attempting to avoid becoming caught in any social situations during most of the rest of the day--or whatever else we've discussed and I've forgotten in a fit of sleepiness! Feel free to hit me up on the plotting thread or pm or plurk!]