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Found an old bit o' fic
Apr. 21st, 2012 08:50 pmI was rummaging through some old files and found this little snippet that I had written a ways back, and thought I'd post it. It amuses me.
His eyelids feel heavy. It's not really anything important, but it is still an annoyance. A burden of needing sleep, he supposes. One would think heroing and adventuring would come with a good night's sleep from time to time. Not that's he bitter or anything. Okay, he is, but he always feels much more justified when denying it. He's not sure why, exactly. He's too sleepy to think about it now though. He's got a big day ahead of him tomorrow; plenty to worry about without the little things butting in. Though, as fun as facing impending doom and most certain death is, sometimes a little distraction can be allowed. It's always important to stress the small stuff too, else it feel left out or unwanted. He reflects for a moment on the necessity of proper hygiene, er, priorities. He recognizes the importance of proper hygiene too, of course; it's simply a matter of having little in the way of proper sanitary facilities out in the middle of a large and secluded forest, not to mention the lack of clean anything after weeks and months spent traversing dusty road after dusty road. There really should be a law against dusty roads, he thinks. He's not exactly sure how anyone could manage it, but reflects that there is enough magic in the world for someone out there, somewhere, to think up some truly reasonable means of creating some rather lovely, dust-free roads. If he weren't going to his undeniably-certain death tomorrow, well, he would certainly send a letter to Forrud in that really, really, tremendously large city back, what was it, three lands ago? Rapidly looming peril is always such a pain, ruining so many great ideas.
He sighs resolutely and shifts irresolutely in his bedding. The Nome certainly enjoys irony. It's not enough to have to go fight for his life the next day, but he will have to do so groggy and nowhere near his best. Thanks ever so, he grumbles. And there's that bitterness again. Not a terrible lot of it, he admits; he's far too often amused by the irony to ever be too bitter. Though it only slightly aids against the fear; scary, scary fear. He yawns in terror.
His eyelids feel heavy. It's not really anything important, but it is still an annoyance. A burden of needing sleep, he supposes. One would think heroing and adventuring would come with a good night's sleep from time to time. Not that's he bitter or anything. Okay, he is, but he always feels much more justified when denying it. He's not sure why, exactly. He's too sleepy to think about it now though. He's got a big day ahead of him tomorrow; plenty to worry about without the little things butting in. Though, as fun as facing impending doom and most certain death is, sometimes a little distraction can be allowed. It's always important to stress the small stuff too, else it feel left out or unwanted. He reflects for a moment on the necessity of proper hygiene, er, priorities. He recognizes the importance of proper hygiene too, of course; it's simply a matter of having little in the way of proper sanitary facilities out in the middle of a large and secluded forest, not to mention the lack of clean anything after weeks and months spent traversing dusty road after dusty road. There really should be a law against dusty roads, he thinks. He's not exactly sure how anyone could manage it, but reflects that there is enough magic in the world for someone out there, somewhere, to think up some truly reasonable means of creating some rather lovely, dust-free roads. If he weren't going to his undeniably-certain death tomorrow, well, he would certainly send a letter to Forrud in that really, really, tremendously large city back, what was it, three lands ago? Rapidly looming peril is always such a pain, ruining so many great ideas.
He sighs resolutely and shifts irresolutely in his bedding. The Nome certainly enjoys irony. It's not enough to have to go fight for his life the next day, but he will have to do so groggy and nowhere near his best. Thanks ever so, he grumbles. And there's that bitterness again. Not a terrible lot of it, he admits; he's far too often amused by the irony to ever be too bitter. Though it only slightly aids against the fear; scary, scary fear. He yawns in terror.
