(After a few people on Skype said that apparently I was a good writer, I'd decided to attempt at making the whole style and the like more Alterafied. This was the result.)
He'd took to sitting outside, lately. Normally, he would be enjoying the comfort that comes from the familiarity of his inn, but recently it had become nearly suffocating. Strangely, it was the simpler things that were easier to focus on than what actual problems were. Little things do lead to much larger problems if left alone too long, of course. But by extension of that logic he realized that the larger problems he leaves unattended may, and perhaps already have started to become, catastrophes.
Nwalme leaned back in the chair he had placed outside, in the snow, and quietly stirred the mug of coffee resting in his lap with a finger. Habits, he would be a horrific spy, but he would try; he was a horrific knight, but he had still tried. Perhaps it was time for a change in careers once more? But of course, he knew how displeased those he worked for would be, but on the other side of the card he was starting to have trouble stomaching some lies. He chuckled to himself bitterly at a distant memory, and as he closes his eyes and with a brief sigh takes a gulp of the steaming coffee. Perhaps he would not enjoy its heat so much if it wasn't so cold outside. That said, ironically, he enjoyed the warm sensation in his throat and chest as the coffee traveled through his body; but he had grown to resent the stifling warmth of his inn this time of night.
After a brief pause, he lifted his right hand from the arm rest and took a moment to examine his wooden fingers. Signs of failure, something to learn from, should even be grateful that it was only his fingers that were taken. Bullshit, he knew, but he kept lying to himself because it's what he was taught to do. He found it curious how, when he was younger, he would marvel at the nobility's various rings and jewels. Partially because he could make a fortune from selling one, partially because he was simply jealous of their wealth. Now, as one, he envied the simplicity of the lower class's lives; but this was tempered by the knowledge that he knew if he had the opportunity to go back, he wouldn't. He would get bored within the month, and want to return back to his politics.
He believed himself to be a man who wants, actively pursues, exactly what he can't have. Why else would he so fervently pursue happiness and peace, in a world so fractured, corrupt and grey that such is impossible? As he slightly slouched in his chair, he closed his eyes with a bitter half-smile as his thoughts strayed to the topic of grey. Nothing was pleasant about the word. The metaphors that it represents he far too often came into contact with, the man killed his Danniella and by extension his... son, daughter?
In a world he believed to be so uncertain, he felt a sensation that had similarities to both comfort and hate at the realization he would never know.
He'd took to sitting outside, lately. Normally, he would be enjoying the comfort that comes from the familiarity of his inn, but recently it had become nearly suffocating. Strangely, it was the simpler things that were easier to focus on than what actual problems were. Little things do lead to much larger problems if left alone too long, of course. But by extension of that logic he realized that the larger problems he leaves unattended may, and perhaps already have started to become, catastrophes.
Nwalme leaned back in the chair he had placed outside, in the snow, and quietly stirred the mug of coffee resting in his lap with a finger. Habits, he would be a horrific spy, but he would try; he was a horrific knight, but he had still tried. Perhaps it was time for a change in careers once more? But of course, he knew how displeased those he worked for would be, but on the other side of the card he was starting to have trouble stomaching some lies. He chuckled to himself bitterly at a distant memory, and as he closes his eyes and with a brief sigh takes a gulp of the steaming coffee. Perhaps he would not enjoy its heat so much if it wasn't so cold outside. That said, ironically, he enjoyed the warm sensation in his throat and chest as the coffee traveled through his body; but he had grown to resent the stifling warmth of his inn this time of night.
After a brief pause, he lifted his right hand from the arm rest and took a moment to examine his wooden fingers. Signs of failure, something to learn from, should even be grateful that it was only his fingers that were taken. Bullshit, he knew, but he kept lying to himself because it's what he was taught to do. He found it curious how, when he was younger, he would marvel at the nobility's various rings and jewels. Partially because he could make a fortune from selling one, partially because he was simply jealous of their wealth. Now, as one, he envied the simplicity of the lower class's lives; but this was tempered by the knowledge that he knew if he had the opportunity to go back, he wouldn't. He would get bored within the month, and want to return back to his politics.
He believed himself to be a man who wants, actively pursues, exactly what he can't have. Why else would he so fervently pursue happiness and peace, in a world so fractured, corrupt and grey that such is impossible? As he slightly slouched in his chair, he closed his eyes with a bitter half-smile as his thoughts strayed to the topic of grey. Nothing was pleasant about the word. The metaphors that it represents he far too often came into contact with, the man killed his Danniella and by extension his... son, daughter?
In a world he believed to be so uncertain, he felt a sensation that had similarities to both comfort and hate at the realization he would never know.
