17th of Ash, 123
Leon's body unfurled like a tired beast, his sinewy arms reaching skyward, stretching to chase away the lethargy that clung to him like a stubborn shadow. The night had been a relentless companion, a relentless ordeal of rifle tinkering that left him drained, as if some unseen force had drained the wellspring of his creativity. He yearned for a spark, a flicker of inspiration, something to banish the haze of exhaustion that clung to his thoughts.
With a reluctant sigh, he finally conceded defeat and threw back the tangled sheets that clung to his legs. His hand slapped his unruly hair, as if trying to shake loose the inspiration hidden within his stubborn thoughts. "Damn it, cooperate for once, will you?" He muttered, his voice laced with exasperation, as he rapped his knuckles lightly against his temple.
Leon shuffled across the room to a weathered oak cupboard, its wood bearing the scars of countless disappointments. He yanked the door open with more force than necessary, revealing a row of empty containers, their hollowness echoing his frustration. His lips curled into a sneer. "Seriously?"
Desperation propelled him to ransack the cluttered drawers, his fingers dancing over mementos and knick-knacks that held fragments of memories. His quest led him to a long-awaited discovery: a crumpled pack of cigarettes nestled amidst the chaos. Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived as he realized there was only a solitary, slender stick remaining within the pack.
His angular face twisted in frustration, and he sank into the chair. Fingers trembling, he extracted the final cigarette, its cylindrical form a fragile comfort in his grip. With a flick of his silver lighter, the ember sprang to life. He drew the first drag with a deep inhale, allowing the smoke to curl and weave its tendrils around his thoughts, coaxing them into a semblance of tranquility.
The room, bathed in the dimmed light filtering through heavy curtains, bore the weight of midday. Outside the window, the world seemed to move at a pace entirely different from Leon's internal chaos, as if time itself had chosen to disregard his struggles. Leon's mind crackled with the urgency of his need. He muttered a curse under his breath. Shit, hope that geezer's still got some stuff. I need to restock.
With a swift, practiced motion, Leon snatched his revolver from its resting place, deftly loaded it with a sense of purpose, and tossed a pouch of ammunition into a knapsack slung over his shoulder. His apartment, bathed in the faint glow light, seemed to sigh in relief as he hurried towards the door.
The bustling streets of the city greeted him as he stepped outside. Leon's keen eyes scanned the passing carriages. He hailed one and, with a gruff determination, barked his destination to the driver.
"Edge of Northside."
A flicker of hesitation danced in the driver's eyes at the mention of venturing so close to Trashtown. Leon, undeterred, produced a glimmering silver aven, its gleam coaxing reluctant agreement from the driver. As the carriage clattered into motion, Leon's fatigue-ridden body finally surrendered to slumber, and the rhythmic clop of hooves merged with his fading consciousness.
Moments later, he was roused from his restless nap as the driver halted a few meters from the imposing bridge that marked the tenuous boundary between the Northside and Trashtown. Leon groaned, the ache of interrupted sleep gnawing at his bones. With a reluctant sigh, he reached for another piece of silver aven and handed it to the driver, whose grip on fear loosened in the presence of gleaming wealth.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Leon stepped onto the worn cobbles and squinted against the sudden brightness of the day. He pushed onward, crossing the bridge with the steely resolve of a man driven by necessity. He stopped in front of an alleyway near the bustling harbor.
Leon's body unfurled like a tired beast, his sinewy arms reaching skyward, stretching to chase away the lethargy that clung to him like a stubborn shadow. The night had been a relentless companion, a relentless ordeal of rifle tinkering that left him drained, as if some unseen force had drained the wellspring of his creativity. He yearned for a spark, a flicker of inspiration, something to banish the haze of exhaustion that clung to his thoughts.
With a reluctant sigh, he finally conceded defeat and threw back the tangled sheets that clung to his legs. His hand slapped his unruly hair, as if trying to shake loose the inspiration hidden within his stubborn thoughts. "Damn it, cooperate for once, will you?" He muttered, his voice laced with exasperation, as he rapped his knuckles lightly against his temple.
Leon shuffled across the room to a weathered oak cupboard, its wood bearing the scars of countless disappointments. He yanked the door open with more force than necessary, revealing a row of empty containers, their hollowness echoing his frustration. His lips curled into a sneer. "Seriously?"
Desperation propelled him to ransack the cluttered drawers, his fingers dancing over mementos and knick-knacks that held fragments of memories. His quest led him to a long-awaited discovery: a crumpled pack of cigarettes nestled amidst the chaos. Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived as he realized there was only a solitary, slender stick remaining within the pack.
His angular face twisted in frustration, and he sank into the chair. Fingers trembling, he extracted the final cigarette, its cylindrical form a fragile comfort in his grip. With a flick of his silver lighter, the ember sprang to life. He drew the first drag with a deep inhale, allowing the smoke to curl and weave its tendrils around his thoughts, coaxing them into a semblance of tranquility.
The room, bathed in the dimmed light filtering through heavy curtains, bore the weight of midday. Outside the window, the world seemed to move at a pace entirely different from Leon's internal chaos, as if time itself had chosen to disregard his struggles. Leon's mind crackled with the urgency of his need. He muttered a curse under his breath. Shit, hope that geezer's still got some stuff. I need to restock.
With a swift, practiced motion, Leon snatched his revolver from its resting place, deftly loaded it with a sense of purpose, and tossed a pouch of ammunition into a knapsack slung over his shoulder. His apartment, bathed in the faint glow light, seemed to sigh in relief as he hurried towards the door.
The bustling streets of the city greeted him as he stepped outside. Leon's keen eyes scanned the passing carriages. He hailed one and, with a gruff determination, barked his destination to the driver.
"Edge of Northside."
A flicker of hesitation danced in the driver's eyes at the mention of venturing so close to Trashtown. Leon, undeterred, produced a glimmering silver aven, its gleam coaxing reluctant agreement from the driver. As the carriage clattered into motion, Leon's fatigue-ridden body finally surrendered to slumber, and the rhythmic clop of hooves merged with his fading consciousness.
Moments later, he was roused from his restless nap as the driver halted a few meters from the imposing bridge that marked the tenuous boundary between the Northside and Trashtown. Leon groaned, the ache of interrupted sleep gnawing at his bones. With a reluctant sigh, he reached for another piece of silver aven and handed it to the driver, whose grip on fear loosened in the presence of gleaming wealth.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Leon stepped onto the worn cobbles and squinted against the sudden brightness of the day. He pushed onward, crossing the bridge with the steely resolve of a man driven by necessity. He stopped in front of an alleyway near the bustling harbor.
