i. Who's Woods These Are || The woods on the outskirts of town; Open
Damn if this weather wasn't miserable.
It wasn't often that he found himself in the cold rain like this, usually taking off with Goody to warmer climes when winter winds first blew across the plains. At least, he thinks, that there is no snow on the ground. Instead it's just the rain, soaking through his woolen jacket, slipping off the edge of his felted hat as he continues to chop at one of the fallen logs at the edge of town.
With the heat seeping out of the houses, the lights that didn't need oil or gas flickering on and off, they may as well be properly prepared. And that meant gathering firewood, even if the wood would be wet and smoke something fierce for the first few days.
All the same, he knows that he's being watched by something- or someone- in the woods, and it has him pausing and putting a hand on his knife, ready for someone's approach.
ii. Alone with God and Memories of Sin || The Town Square; Open
The little tent in the center of town is illuminated with that gas-lamp glow, the warm yellow lights high above casting shadows across the canvas. Inside, there is a heat, blankets and canned food and canteens of water free for their taking, the ghostly hosts of the town provided.
And on the table, a letter bearing his name. He's thankful for the print instead of the usual curling script he has difficulty reading, and all the same there are still words he cannot read- the effects of poor schooling for immigrants, even if he had taken a few lessons with Goody's tutelage.
But he can make out a few words- drink, and vial, an apparent instruction to take one and drink.
Billy picks one at random- red, for luck- and downs it fast. Gathering up some of the canned goods and one of the jugs of water. He's barely at the entrance before a pain shocks him to the core, blood blossoming across his shirt, soaking through the thick cotton of his vest. It tastes like copper on his lips as he coughs, spitting up blood.
Quickly, he pulls his vest open to expose his chest, a horror on his face as he realizes there's a bloom of blood across his breast- a wound he had inflicted on someone in life, now given to him in death.
He grabs the nearest person he can find and shoves the letter in their hands, trying to keep his voice even. "What does this say?"
no subject
Damn if this weather wasn't miserable.
It wasn't often that he found himself in the cold rain like this, usually taking off with Goody to warmer climes when winter winds first blew across the plains. At least, he thinks, that there is no snow on the ground. Instead it's just the rain, soaking through his woolen jacket, slipping off the edge of his felted hat as he continues to chop at one of the fallen logs at the edge of town.
With the heat seeping out of the houses, the lights that didn't need oil or gas flickering on and off, they may as well be properly prepared. And that meant gathering firewood, even if the wood would be wet and smoke something fierce for the first few days.
All the same, he knows that he's being watched by something- or someone- in the woods, and it has him pausing and putting a hand on his knife, ready for someone's approach.
ii. Alone with God and Memories of Sin || The Town Square; Open
The little tent in the center of town is illuminated with that gas-lamp glow, the warm yellow lights high above casting shadows across the canvas. Inside, there is a heat, blankets and canned food and canteens of water free for their taking, the ghostly hosts of the town provided.
And on the table, a letter bearing his name. He's thankful for the print instead of the usual curling script he has difficulty reading, and all the same there are still words he cannot read- the effects of poor schooling for immigrants, even if he had taken a few lessons with Goody's tutelage.
But he can make out a few words- drink, and vial, an apparent instruction to take one and drink.
Billy picks one at random- red, for luck- and downs it fast. Gathering up some of the canned goods and one of the jugs of water. He's barely at the entrance before a pain shocks him to the core, blood blossoming across his shirt, soaking through the thick cotton of his vest. It tastes like copper on his lips as he coughs, spitting up blood.
Quickly, he pulls his vest open to expose his chest, a horror on his face as he realizes there's a bloom of blood across his breast- a wound he had inflicted on someone in life, now given to him in death.
He grabs the nearest person he can find and shoves the letter in their hands, trying to keep his voice even.
"What does this say?"