scots_wolf: (Grim)
Urquhart does not care for Christmas.

He has not for years, and despite recent events, he still doesn't.

All the cheerful people make him feel like the devil in a midnight mass, apart and angry.

That entire religion is a sham, and the holiday is just a case of whistling in the dark to make the sun come back, when science clearly says that the sun will come back anyway.

Urquhart is sitting in his room, the snoring dog by his feet, drinking scotch and reading a book about sharks.

Science. Yes.

Then, he looks up. There is somebody in his room that shouldn't be there.

A woman?
scots_wolf: (Mad)
No more fear.

No more memories.

No more the memories of grey ruins in the fog, no more the memories of spilled blood and wails, no longer the memory of all the faces, crumpled and dead, sweet and innocent.

I am the monster, I can become the fear, I will prove I am the monster, not that which is afraid, and then nothing shall ever touch me again.

Not the wailing of children, not the doubt in the eyes of friends, not the absence of Saffron or Moist.

Not the desperate yowl of the dog as he runs away, afraid of the monster I've become.

Nothing touches me, once it is sealed.

So I quietly wander in the mist, become the mist, damp grass underneath my feet and ragged trees unable to touch me; hunting one to pounce and take, to bring to sacrifice, that which must be given over to seal the pact with the fear.

So I become pure fear itself, and never need feel it again.
scots_wolf: (Castle Urquhart)
[[After this]]

The house by the lakeshore had been scary, for people who could be scared. Urquhart doesn't count himself among them.

He had been startled, he tells himself.

Still, in the evening, he finds it a good idea to drink considerably more whiskey than usually, which make going to sleep easy and problem-free.

But as soon as he closes his eyes, he is back in the mist, in that house.

He bends again, his hand on the grey fallen stones of the crumbled wall, picking up that paper.

When he looks up again, things have subtly changed. It is morning, a misty morning, and the shape of the hills and mountains around the lake have shifted, from the familiar landscape of the Milliways outside to something achingly, hauntingly known. Similar, but different; not just indifferent, but just right.

Home. The hills and glens around Loch Ness, as seen from his own home where he grew up.

Urquhart is home, in Urquhart castle.

He picks up a stone, and stands. There is fog wafting through the buildings, because you can't call them buildings any more: nothing has all four walls any more, and roofs seem to have gone out of fashion centuries ago.

This happened because of him. Urquhart had left his family on their own, and they have failed and died out, and their home has fallen into ruin over the centuries.

People come here to look at the old ruins, presumably -- there are railings and paths in the grass, and a booth somewhere to sell them tickets, but closed still because this is the very early morning.

Urquhart is all alone. He left them, and now he is back home, they are all long gone. Icy dread runs through his veins that is part-fog, part-guilt, and all a loneliness that he didn't even know he minded.

A spindly staircase leads up a crumbling wall, the only piece of coherent structure in sight, but sight is limited by the fog; so Urquhart climbs the thin, improvised stairs up to whatever is to be found at the top, which he can't see on account of the mist.

Climbing them becomes a great chore, the way things can sometimes be; when he finally reaches the top, all he finds there are a kind of modern outbuildings.

Who puts the privy on the top of a wall, balanced on the crumbling masonry?

Urquhart opens one of the doors, but before he can peer inside, he hits himself with the swinging door of that ill-perched box.

He falls off the wall.

His own shout for help wakes him. He is in his own bed, drenched in cold sweat, chilled to the bones.-
scots_wolf: (With Moist)
It's no longer as warm outside as it used to be, so Urquhart has settled back into his room. He's slouching on the divan, only half-dressed, slowly inhaling a large mug of hot spiced coffee, and chatting to Moist about all the things that have happened in the bar in his absence.

It rather feels like catching him up on the plot of a soap opera.

"... and he's totally smitten with the man," he concludes his tale about Orpheus, Steve Rogers and all the rest (the part with all the schadenfreude about Teja came first, of course). "I have no idea how much he knows about what Orpheus is up to. I mean, there's even this vampire. So I try and say nothing. I really don't want anything to do with the inevitable drama when it happens."

Ugh. People and all their feelings.
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
Urquhart walks into his room, with Atton slung over his shoulder like a bag of books, dumps him on the divan, and kicks the door shut.

"So," he says, looking down at him with a smirk, "what about that bantha creature?"
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
They had found each other downstairs, and without much ado, hardly more than looks, decided to take themselves upstairs, to Urquhart's room, to enjoy each other in whatever way they'd feel like.

So, Urquhart opens the door to Saffron and Moist both, followed by the dog (who lies in his corner by the fire, as the humans will want to do their human things) and some rats with a cart that contains food and drink, to relax with, or maybe enjoy later. The rats leave, and Urquhart goes around with a taper, lighting oriental glass lamps and braziers. It's still a bit too cold, from the outside, to do without.

The divan looks as inviting as ever.
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
Urquhart's rooms smells of spices and smoke when he opens the door. There is a fire in the brazier, and a tray of small spicy pastries by the divan, exuding a scent of cardamom and cinnamon and aniseed and cloves.

It's already dark outside, and Franz the dog contentedly goes to lie in his corner and dream of hunting demon bunnies, his feet moving as he sleeps, sometimes.

Urquhart puts down the jug of mulled cider and the mugs he brought, nudges the door shut, and turns to look into Moist's eyes with all sorts of lewd promises.
scots_wolf: (xx Wolf mask -- assertive)
Urquhart walks in with Moist, carrying a bottle, and laughing.

Moist is in a big, aristocratic Ɯberwaldean coat, and Urquhart is still wearing his wolf mask on the back of his head. Franz the dog is following them, and makes straight for his corner by the fire, which some unseen serving spirit has already lit.

Urquhart kicks shut the door. "What would you like now?"
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
[[From here]]

Urquhart's room is as sumptuous and oriental as ever, perhaps even more pleasant as somebody seems to have opened the windows to the balmy evening air, and the pleasant scents of the late summer gardens are drifting in.

Franz the dog is ambling to his place, lying down in a warm and cosy corner, on a shaggy rug that's just for him.

"Wine?" Urquhart offers to the Fool and Moist, turning around after leading them in, his yet-unadorned hair swinging with his movement.
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
Urquhart has a bag of fresh food dangling from his wrist, and his other arm thrown around Moist.

He unlocks the door. His room looks very inviting, tidy, and comfortable.

"Cooking first, or sex first?"
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
Urquhart's room is medieval, of course; and it's oriental.

There are tiles and silk in deep, luxurious colours, turquoise patterns and deep ultramarine lines, large copper dishes and a pool along the dainty latticed windows, and a rug-covered divan in a corner.

There are even potted plants.

Urquhart has spent years in the orient, and it shows in what the bar thinks he would feel at home in.

Urquhart lights a brazier, more for light than warmth, and smiles at Posner as he does so.
scots_wolf: (Waiting)
Urquhart is sitting in the main room of the inn, sipping his first cup of coffee of the day. Things seem to be going well; the maids and grooms pass him and simper, or grin, and the cook has been by and asked him about breakfast.

It will be served when 'his young friend' comes down. Urquhart is ready to say something funny and outrageous when Moist appears, for the edification and amusement of all present.-
scots_wolf: (Crossbow red)
Urquhart lounges by the door to the inn, sipping a last cup of tea while waiting for 'Mr. Astaire' to turn up so he could follow him to the funeral.

He's got no idea what a funeral on the Disc would be like, what with polytheism and very real gods. So, after a pleasant and relaxing night (and brief jump from window to window, back and forth), now is probably the right time for business.
scots_wolf: (x female -- Intense)
Urquhart's room looks just the same as always, tiles and silk, opulence and comfort, as the door opens for Urquhart and Moist.

Only Urquhart doesn't.
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
Urquhart wanders in, followed by Moist.

He feels stupid, and is going to apologise to Moist for putting him on the spot so.

That's not what he signed up for, after all.-

Urquhart lights only one brazier, then sits on his divan, still very quiet.
scots_wolf: (Buliwyf)
He wakes, bewildered.

Instead of a bare hall under siege, he's in the most decadently luxurious room he's ever seen. The Arab probably lives like that, but Buliwyf feels as if he'd landed in some bizarre traveller's tale.

At least the dog's familiar snore is there, by his feet.

He lifts his head, feeling feverish, and unbecomingly hung-over.


He is naked, in a decadently luxurious bed, and beside him, there is a naked man, and a total stranger, at that.

scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)

This is what I feel an oriental room like Urq's looks like, only with less guns and hookahs, and with turquoise tiles, intricate sandstone arches and latticework, and low pools on the other side of the room. Oh, and the divan is larger as well...

Limited amounts of gratitude to the 'Home Sweet Home' tumblr, where I did find the picture; however, they made me jump through so many hoops to grab the pic which they themselves reblogged from somebody else, I can't say I actually thank them.
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
It's still dark in Urquhart's room when he leads them there. He's just come back from Sto Kerrig with Moist, after all.

But it doesn't take long to light the braziers and lanterns, and find proper glasses for their sinfully rare and expensive single malt whisky.

Then, he joins Saffron and Moist on his low, wide divan, filling their glasses again.

But he brings a small wooden box as well.
scots_wolf: (Attentive)
[[from here]]

The next morning, Urquhart awakes to fine bed-linen and the unique shade of cool bright light that promises a sunny, snowy day outside.

He lifts his head, pulling his long blond hair free from the pillow where it had remained as it was, tangled from last night, while he'd been sleeping.
scots_wolf: (x -- Oriental room)
Urquhart is laughing as he opens the door to his room. It's dark outside, and there are lamps in the windows, lights reflected in the shallow pool.

There are a few burning braziers around, with a little sprinkle of incense burning on it and giving up its sweet smell to the room.

Urquhart puts the wine on a low table, and turns to Saffron, with a big grin.
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