[ Everything's sharp edges, too loud. For a few panicked seconds his only thoughts are of calendars and potions he has or hasn't forgotten to take, but then the edges start to round off: the loud gains depth instead of a narrow pitch, settles in instead of clawing out. There are pale walls ahead of him and above him, and his hand is still gripping the cord he's just pulled from his neck, tense and white-knuckled and human.
He waits for the fear to follow suit. It does, growing quieter and heavier all at once. That's something he can work with, and he's as close to calm as the situation can possibly merit as he sits up. His robes are torn at the edges and starkly filthy against the white bed, but he ignores the clean clothes that have been set out. Pockets the map and the chocolate. The wand stays in his hand.
Everything's louder once he's off the ladder. He lifts one hand to rub at his temple, which accomplishes nothing, and the noise of footsteps to his left sounds like a cage being rattled. The urge to draw his wand is stifled by the sense that there's no need, contradictory, and that only adds to the surge of confusion as he looks at a face he does and doesn't know. He thinks of several things at once, who are you and where is this and more, but instead he says, hoarsely: ]
You've just woken up.
two | bearings, ota.
[ Werewolves tend to avoid cities, as a general rule. Remus isn't an exception. The towering buildings and glaring lights don't make him feel unwelcome so much as transient, and when they drop him off in front of the Bearings and the inevitable room inside, there's a moment of doubt — they've made a mistake. Or he has, clearly, to have ended up here.
The 13th level is a mess. Not because it's cluttered or dirty or lived-in, but because there are people, different and loud and familiar (sort of). He doesn't rush to claim a room, and the ( common room ) offers up a quick distraction. Remus slides his hands into his pockets as he steps over to the broad window, deceptively nonchalant. Or not-so-deceptively, all things considered; the low note of worry is there, keen and steady, clear in the knit of his brows and more direct means.
The skyline rests under a colorful haze, too bright and busy to reveal much in the way of stars. It doesn't stop him from looking.
Later, once he's actually picked out a ( bedroom ) — as close to the end of the hall he can manage, as if that guarantees some kind of privacy — he empties his pockets and hangs up his dusty, tattered coat. The map's silent and blank on the bed alongside a half-eaten bar of chocolate, and Remus watches it for a moment before he speaks, tone curious: ]
I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.
[ Ink bleeds across the parchment, creeps out to the edges. Then it stops. And it stays still, which is more or less what he'd been expecting: no names, no footprints. Just a map of a place that's very, very far away, and well out of reach. ]
no subject
[ Everything's sharp edges, too loud. For a few panicked seconds his only thoughts are of calendars and potions he has or hasn't forgotten to take, but then the edges start to round off: the loud gains depth instead of a narrow pitch, settles in instead of clawing out. There are pale walls ahead of him and above him, and his hand is still gripping the cord he's just pulled from his neck, tense and white-knuckled and human.
He waits for the fear to follow suit. It does, growing quieter and heavier all at once. That's something he can work with, and he's as close to calm as the situation can possibly merit as he sits up. His robes are torn at the edges and starkly filthy against the white bed, but he ignores the clean clothes that have been set out. Pockets the map and the chocolate. The wand stays in his hand.
Everything's louder once he's off the ladder. He lifts one hand to rub at his temple, which accomplishes nothing, and the noise of footsteps to his left sounds like a cage being rattled. The urge to draw his wand is stifled by the sense that there's no need, contradictory, and that only adds to the surge of confusion as he looks at a face he does and doesn't know. He thinks of several things at once, who are you and where is this and more, but instead he says, hoarsely: ]
You've just woken up.
two | bearings, ota.
[ Werewolves tend to avoid cities, as a general rule. Remus isn't an exception. The towering buildings and glaring lights don't make him feel unwelcome so much as transient, and when they drop him off in front of the Bearings and the inevitable room inside, there's a moment of doubt — they've made a mistake. Or he has, clearly, to have ended up here.
The 13th level is a mess. Not because it's cluttered or dirty or lived-in, but because there are people, different and loud and familiar (sort of). He doesn't rush to claim a room, and the ( common room ) offers up a quick distraction. Remus slides his hands into his pockets as he steps over to the broad window, deceptively nonchalant. Or not-so-deceptively, all things considered; the low note of worry is there, keen and steady, clear in the knit of his brows and more direct means.
The skyline rests under a colorful haze, too bright and busy to reveal much in the way of stars. It doesn't stop him from looking.
Later, once he's actually picked out a ( bedroom ) — as close to the end of the hall he can manage, as if that guarantees some kind of privacy — he empties his pockets and hangs up his dusty, tattered coat. The map's silent and blank on the bed alongside a half-eaten bar of chocolate, and Remus watches it for a moment before he speaks, tone curious: ]
I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.
[ Ink bleeds across the parchment, creeps out to the edges. Then it stops. And it stays still, which is more or less what he'd been expecting: no names, no footprints. Just a map of a place that's very, very far away, and well out of reach. ]