Post by Morgan Owen on Dec 19, 2017 0:21:08 GMT -5
Morgan strolled through the woods with the music on his phone for company. It was promising to be a lonely Yuletide-Christmas-Pagan-Winter-Solstice-Whatever-It-Was-They-Were-Celebrating-Now for him, but between his dysfunctional royal family at home and his struggle to transition from an academy kid to a member of the faculty, it looked like he was about to spend the holiday season alone. A part of him was bothered by this, but he found that he was mostly okay with it, at least for now. It seemed to him that he possessed a talent for messing up what friendships he had by opening his mouth. The smart thing would have been to keep it shut, but try as he might, he seemed incapable of doing that.
He had to admit there was something magical about strolling through the picturesque woods as the snow – more glitter than snow – sprinted on his dark hair and coat while he listened to ye olde carols, which usually celebrated eating a single orange and warned of impending death from plague of genocide in the new year. Morgan was one for having an audience for most of his waking hours, but there was something about this solitude that he loved. He was experiencing something rare: the ability to hear himself think.
He came to a halt on stop of a snow drift and gazed out over the glittering village below. It reminded him of Ireland – or rather of a fantasy version of Ireland. Ireland would never glitter like that; they didn't have electricity and the peasantry was usually starving. He had to admit, it was beautiful. And it was so, so peaceful and serene up here.
There was a click and his music stopped. His hand slipped into his pocket and he pulled out his phone and saw that it was dead. Uncharacteristically calm, he pulled out of his earbuds and tucked everything back into his pocket and set to gazing at the lights below him.
He had to admit there was something magical about strolling through the picturesque woods as the snow – more glitter than snow – sprinted on his dark hair and coat while he listened to ye olde carols, which usually celebrated eating a single orange and warned of impending death from plague of genocide in the new year. Morgan was one for having an audience for most of his waking hours, but there was something about this solitude that he loved. He was experiencing something rare: the ability to hear himself think.
He came to a halt on stop of a snow drift and gazed out over the glittering village below. It reminded him of Ireland – or rather of a fantasy version of Ireland. Ireland would never glitter like that; they didn't have electricity and the peasantry was usually starving. He had to admit, it was beautiful. And it was so, so peaceful and serene up here.
There was a click and his music stopped. His hand slipped into his pocket and he pulled out his phone and saw that it was dead. Uncharacteristically calm, he pulled out of his earbuds and tucked everything back into his pocket and set to gazing at the lights below him.