(I myself have now forgotten the speech and thought distinction ["" and ' '] many times. Mostly as a reminder to myself; "" in responses will now always refer to communication unspoken, while ' ' will always be spoken. So things are officially even more confusing for you.)
>RAM: "Count your claws, teeth, and tails, is anything missing?"
You examine yourself, regardless of the voice, making a quiet ~stsking sound. Your missing the second smallest claw on your right foot, making the slick digit totally useless, although that's a really old injury. A couple of other toes were broken at some point and healed in odd positions, like the middle toe on your left foot tends to bend over the toe beside it half the time. Your missing a sharp molar*, also old. You're definitely not missing your tail, and neither are you missing your purple quartz crystal. Compared to what's making you itch, none of those things matter very much. You're missing scales all over, about an ninth, and the crackly skin-like scabs have taken their place. All over your body. And the scabs have no hint of ink.
You are slightly thirsty.
You are hungry.
You feel slow and stiff.
You itch in a moderate way.
(* Iknans have some teeth that have both a sharp edge [small ~triangle shaped in bite and silhouette] and a mashing surface. They are used almost like human canines.)
(Uh→Wow→Dread→Wonder→Ponder→Procrastinate→Wonder→Procrastinate→Debate→Correct Spelling.→↓ [I'm sorry if you meant an hour of science, I would have blocked something so vague and expansive anyway...])
>Armok: [about an hour of silence]
You nearly fall over into the doorjam, and shake your head to clear the strange spacey feeling. You walk up to one of the candles and examine the tattoo. It's still an organized, confusing mess of lines and symbols you can only vaguely understand, but now there's more "mess" involved. It's as though the lost scales are concentrated there, and many lines are broken or thinned. You twist carefully to the side, so as not to split any skin, and find this upgrades the tattoo into a completely garbled mess. It does, however, itch a great deal now. At least you aren't one to scratch.
It's also way too cold in here to be standing around, so you preform your "morning" exercises, starting by running laps around the room. You do so as vigorously and quietly as you can manage, but still make skidding and clicking noises every other step (plus one every time you use the last pillar to swing around). Since there are no internal doors, you saw all the others in the room as you began. They are all human, old, and sleeping on beds against each hallwards wall. One of the four is facing down, and you can see their positions under each taught blanket. You wonder why they aren't awoken by the cold, or why no one bothered to heat this room when they put people here. You are now warm.
You contemplate the other part of your "morning exercises", but there isn't enough space in the hall or the cubicles. It seems like the entire room began as a large hallway, then was later converted to these sleeping ~quarters. You shake your head to regain focus from that spacey feeling. You move to examine the person closest to you, the oldest looking one, in the second cubicle from the door left of your first vantage point, and across. He doesn't have many wrinkles, but many liver spots on already dark skin. His hair is the usual greasy mess, but white. You lean over him, close enough to almost breathe the same air. You have this odd feeling, like an urge or impulse, but also like a memory. There's something you feel like doing, and feel how to do it, but you can't remember what it is. It would just take a little push, and you could begin the motions and watch. Just that first step.
You tap something without your hands, and sit down beside the man. You touch his neck (because his hand is covered) with the back of your fingers, bending them them a bit to his skin. He's warmer than you are, and that's no good, but not too bad. You open your eyes, and find him in a place far colder than here, and he's wounded. He is asleep there too, in a single spot that isn't as dim and empty. The wounds both fester and burn, distorted so far that the cause is hidden, lost. Your next step is missing...no, your next step is too high.
You open your eyes, and look at the poor man. You have this sad feeling the others are like this too.
You find yourself on the floor now, and you're cold again. You shake your head vigorously, trying to rid that spacey feeling, and you find you've stiffened up again. You stand slowly, and leave the cubicle. There's the door left of where you woke, and the door right. The left one is closer, so you take it... Or try anyway. It makes a loud creaky noise, and a quiet scraping noise, getting stuck just before opening a crack. You quickly push it back into place, then listen for anyone stirring. None awaken (still), so you go and try the other door, cautiously this time. It, and its latch, open without a sound.
You close door the behind you while looking out into the large room, finding an obviously scholarly splay of furnishings. This room is warmer, filled with candle vases, and constitutes less elaborate architecture (the ceiling isn't arched [only slightly higher than the door]). There are six other doors leading out of the room, and only four of them match, in two sets. The opposing door is partially blocked by the shelves and hutches that line the walls. There are four long tables, a couple desks, and just enough chairs for the lot. Where there aren't lit candle wicks, there are papers, books, and the occasional scroll stuck somewhere. You notice a bin beside you full of clothes, so the first thing you do is start looking through it for something you can wear. And behold! A very long strip of cloth, a bunch of cloth scraps (one half shredded), a strip of leather, and some socks with holes in them. You pull up a chair and get to work putting your clothes back on.
The socks are first, and by wrapping bits of paper from the table around each claw, you save yourself some time. Next is your wrapping, which is still going to take awhile. One leg in, you begin to wonder why you haven't heard any voices. It seems like all your thoughts are yours, but you took a while to detect the compulsions the first time. Perhaps they've...finally left. You wrap up about half of yourself before you hear someone exhale deeply. At first you suspect the voices, but the sound seems to come from somewhere.
Across the room there is an obviously scholarly man splayed across the table, with his head on a book. You wonder a few things at the same time, such as why he didn't wake up, why you didn't notice him, and how could he risk ruining what's probably a very valuable piece of writing. You just keep wrapping yourself up, a bit more swiftly now, since you have no idea when he's going to wake up.
(You know what Armok? Don't do that again.)
> Open doors at random to see if any are locked.
You almost start getting up. It looks like they're back, and they still have no idea what you're doing. Au, not this again.
Author
Topic: Text you can play; you are somewhere. (Read 19683 times)