[Day 2]

Mar. 23rd, 2008 11:52 pm
tezcatl_ipoca: (tez face)
Swinging myself down from the truck into the morning light I stumble a bit. I spent too much of the night walking up and down upon the earth, and now the foot I have left aches to match the phantom pain of the one that's gone. Too proud to limp, last night, to show any sign of mortal weakness. Well, I'm paying for that now.

I had slept in the back of the truck for once. It was airless, but there had been something about the night that made me want walls around me - and no matter how thin these walls might be, they were warded with everything I had. Yet dreams had still stolen in, and I woke exhausted.

The truck; I had bought it (bought and paid for, for once, without trickery or bartering, as all magical things should be) from some kind of mechanical hedge sorcerer down south, and unlike so many vehicles now it still ran, after a fashion. She told me that it would run on anything that had life or spirit to it, and in my time I'd filled the tank with grain alcohol, cooking oil, swamp water, whatever came to hand, and still it groans along. No gasoline - in these days it's dearer than blood, and more closely guarded. (It'll run on blood, if need be, and has. Anything with life or spirit.)

The backlot's stirring around me, full of morning sounds and scents. Every one of them makes my head ache worse. May the day bring better fortune than my restless sleep.

[Day 1]

Mar. 19th, 2008 03:07 pm
tezcatl_ipoca: (tez face)
It's coming on to evening, and the magician who calls himself Tez is sitting in the shadows in the backlot of the carny, a golden coin flick-flick-flicking between his fingers. Since it's his downtime he's left the prosthetic foot he wears for the show in the truck, and the low late sun catches on his outstretched feet, glinting on one silver-buckled boot and one blackened metal stump.

Take a look at Tez, now. You can't see much of him in the shadows: a worn old canvas jacket, skin red-brown as adobe mud (and is that his own colour, or just the burn of too many long days in the sun?), thick black hair caught back at the nape of his neck. Not a pretty man, with that jut of nose like the edge of an axe-blade, but intriguing; black eyes glint at you out of the dimness.

The coin dancing between his fingers turns and turns again, twisting between sun and shadow. If it stopped moving for a moment you'd see that it was old, older than old, a gold doubloon worn so thin that it must have come over with the conquistadors so very long ago. But it never stops moving, flick-flick-flicking between quick fingers, catching the last of the fading light.

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September 2010

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