Jean Kirstein (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wipesfaith) wrote2014-12-02 07:39 pm
wipesfaith) wrote2014-12-02 07:39 pm
08 [action/written]
[All that time up in the mountains ended up doing Jean some good. After how long it took to get anywhere with Nala, he didn't expect to take to Kipinn so soon. Not that he's on his way to being some all-powerful wizard or anything, but...it's a start.
This afternoon, he can be found out in the forest, suspended from a high-up branch of the sturdiest tree he can find. He's essentially got a glorified tree-swing going on here, with the hooked ends of the maneuver gear's iron cables speared into the branch, the cables themselves wrapped around for good measure, and his weight hanging down. His goal: to stir up enough of a gust to get himself swinging in the direction of his choice.
Maybe it would be easier to practice this in the Battle Dome, but he'll take the snappish cold over the high potential for making an idiot of himself where people can see it.
The tree conveniently sits at the edge of a decent-sized meadow clearing, and he lets his horse roam at his leisure, trusting him to not wander too far. As darkness begins to settle in (earlier and earlier at this time of year), he'll head back to town.
Once Jean's got his horse put up in the stables for the night, his next stop is Celcius' Tear to warm up with a cup of tea. He stakes out a table and tries to rub some feeling back into his fingertips. Then he throws all kinds of manners to the wind, tugging off his boots and massaging his icicle feet. This is definitely the sort of company you want while you enjoy your tea, yes?
Eventually, a message jotted down:]
[Written]
Not that I'm complaining, but it just seems awful convenient that everything worked out like it did. [Not that it's perfect, exactly. He knows damn well there's no such thing. But it looks like - up against the hundreds of ways things could have gone wrong - optimism won for once. Maybe it's just that the feeling is a little foreign.] I mean, peace is nice.
[That sounded lame as hell. What's more, he's faced with the dilemma of being a soldier in a time of relative peace. It's funny. This is exactly what he wanted, what feels like a long time ago - to loaf off without any worries. But now? He's restless, useless. It's not that he wants another war to fight; there's still the one simmering back home, while he's stuck here. It's about having some sense of purpose, some direction.]
I guess the point is, what do we do now?
[Take that as rhetorical, or take it as a legitimate question. He's just agitated and spewing shit.]
This afternoon, he can be found out in the forest, suspended from a high-up branch of the sturdiest tree he can find. He's essentially got a glorified tree-swing going on here, with the hooked ends of the maneuver gear's iron cables speared into the branch, the cables themselves wrapped around for good measure, and his weight hanging down. His goal: to stir up enough of a gust to get himself swinging in the direction of his choice.
Maybe it would be easier to practice this in the Battle Dome, but he'll take the snappish cold over the high potential for making an idiot of himself where people can see it.
The tree conveniently sits at the edge of a decent-sized meadow clearing, and he lets his horse roam at his leisure, trusting him to not wander too far. As darkness begins to settle in (earlier and earlier at this time of year), he'll head back to town.
Once Jean's got his horse put up in the stables for the night, his next stop is Celcius' Tear to warm up with a cup of tea. He stakes out a table and tries to rub some feeling back into his fingertips. Then he throws all kinds of manners to the wind, tugging off his boots and massaging his icicle feet. This is definitely the sort of company you want while you enjoy your tea, yes?
Eventually, a message jotted down:]
[Written]
Not that I'm complaining, but it just seems awful convenient that everything worked out like it did. [Not that it's perfect, exactly. He knows damn well there's no such thing. But it looks like - up against the hundreds of ways things could have gone wrong - optimism won for once. Maybe it's just that the feeling is a little foreign.] I mean, peace is nice.
[That sounded lame as hell. What's more, he's faced with the dilemma of being a soldier in a time of relative peace. It's funny. This is exactly what he wanted, what feels like a long time ago - to loaf off without any worries. But now? He's restless, useless. It's not that he wants another war to fight; there's still the one simmering back home, while he's stuck here. It's about having some sense of purpose, some direction.]
I guess the point is, what do we do now?
[Take that as rhetorical, or take it as a legitimate question. He's just agitated and spewing shit.]
[Written]
I've been keeping up with training, just in case, like you said. [Also because he doesn't know what else to do.] I'm trying some stuff with the spirits too. I don't really want it to be just a distraction.
[He had decided he couldn't afford to get distracted.]
[Written]
Hell, I worked as a teacher's assistant for a while. Don't think you could have paid me enough to do it back home, and here I was doing it for free. [Mind you, working with the lovely Raine Sage helped a lot.]
[Something finally clicked in Michael's mind. Why should he be worrying about this now? He remembered Luceti as always beeing fairly peaceful. Or at least he thought that was how he should remember it, except for that part of his hindbrain that held on to the feeling of tension from battles and a looming threat his memories didn't contain.] ...What exactly was it that brought this line of thinking on, anyway?