12-12-2019, 09:51 PM
It was a quiet day in the library.
The sun hung low in the sky, only recently risen, the oranges and pinks that had painted the air floating and slowly giving way to a brilliant blue. Beams of light streamed through what windows there were, lighting up all the dust particles that were inevitably kicked up, illuminating the unmaintained shelves and unused leather-backed tomes that lined its hall. One could, hypothetically, get lost in the rows upon rows of words, practically ancient history given how out of date the collection was, and only realize how much time had passed when the sun had set and it was engulfed in total darkness but for the stray candle.
In the structure he practically called home at this point, Abathur could be found, limbs bunched up on top of one of the tables that the previous occupants used to use, gazing down at his book with a fervent intensity. He found himself here, most days, not wanting to bother with the mysteries of social interaction, leaving all the world behind to escape into a book - not in the typical escapist fantasy way, but instead getting lost in facts upon facts, learning and absorbing all he could, ravenous for information as if starved from it his entire life (which he kind of was).
Any day that started out with him alone, not having to worry about other people for now, any day he could sit in and ignore the wind chill and slowly piling snow on the ground, was a good day, especially when he could sit down with his wonderful encyclopedia on the feline life of the new world; to read up on jaguars and ocelots, on animals of any sort, was, oddly enough, a bit of a pastime for him. It may be odd to some people, to read up on the species of those around you with pure, clinical interest, but Abathur didn't really mind. He never made an active effort to humanize people, frankly - though recently, he was getting a feeling that would change.
In his quiet solitude, the spider flipped another page, completely glued to the guide. It was a sort of focus that one achieved easily when indulging oneself in things you loved, but was easily broken by a stray noise, fragile and delicate, almost as if he was had built a web and was waiting for a fly.
The sun hung low in the sky, only recently risen, the oranges and pinks that had painted the air floating and slowly giving way to a brilliant blue. Beams of light streamed through what windows there were, lighting up all the dust particles that were inevitably kicked up, illuminating the unmaintained shelves and unused leather-backed tomes that lined its hall. One could, hypothetically, get lost in the rows upon rows of words, practically ancient history given how out of date the collection was, and only realize how much time had passed when the sun had set and it was engulfed in total darkness but for the stray candle.
In the structure he practically called home at this point, Abathur could be found, limbs bunched up on top of one of the tables that the previous occupants used to use, gazing down at his book with a fervent intensity. He found himself here, most days, not wanting to bother with the mysteries of social interaction, leaving all the world behind to escape into a book - not in the typical escapist fantasy way, but instead getting lost in facts upon facts, learning and absorbing all he could, ravenous for information as if starved from it his entire life (which he kind of was).
Any day that started out with him alone, not having to worry about other people for now, any day he could sit in and ignore the wind chill and slowly piling snow on the ground, was a good day, especially when he could sit down with his wonderful encyclopedia on the feline life of the new world; to read up on jaguars and ocelots, on animals of any sort, was, oddly enough, a bit of a pastime for him. It may be odd to some people, to read up on the species of those around you with pure, clinical interest, but Abathur didn't really mind. He never made an active effort to humanize people, frankly - though recently, he was getting a feeling that would change.
In his quiet solitude, the spider flipped another page, completely glued to the guide. It was a sort of focus that one achieved easily when indulging oneself in things you loved, but was easily broken by a stray noise, fragile and delicate, almost as if he was had built a web and was waiting for a fly.
tags - "speech"