http://writingknight.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
writingknight.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paixaorpg2007-02-08 08:27 pm
writingknight.livejournal.com) wrote in paixaorpg2007-02-08 08:27 pm
Entry tags:
Chicken Soup for the Writer's Stomach [completed]
Character(s): Fakir, and anyone who wants to join him
Content: Adventure! Drama! Romance! Or, well, actually, just Fakir walking around and getting some soup.
Setting: Lady of Lords Soup Kitchen [F5]
Time: Night
Warnings: None, Fakir's still behaving himself. Considering he's the only one who swears (or...even bleeds) in Princess Tutu, it's pretty remarkable.
It was dark by the time the train reached his destination. (Fakir normally would’ve described it as ‘after sunset’, but he wasn’t quite sure if it counted when the ‘sun’ was a painting.) When he stepped out of the station Fakir was struck with how different this area of the city looked when compared to the area around the gate. Even nearby the gate the buildings were obviously old, but they had been maintained well. In this area of the city, the paintings were faded, the rocks crumbling, and the roads were chipped. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was really a safe place to be “after dark.” He walked fast.
How in the world does anyone get by just walking around here? It must be at least a mile to the soup kitchen!
That moment, as if on cue, a resident of the city rode past on some sort of cycle.
Oh, Fakir thought, That explains it. I’ll have to see where I can get one tomorrow.
Between the swimming, the miles of walking, and the rough train ride, every bone in Fakir’s body was sore. The guide had said there were also some beds at the soup kitchen for people that didn’t have anywhere to stay. Fakir hoped it’d be all right for him to spend the night there—once he reached the soup kitchen, he knew that he’d need to rest.
He was relieved when he finally reached the Lady of Lords Soup Kitchen, and quickly stumbled into it, vaguely noting the painting next to the door of a woman that the kitchen was perhaps named after. His stomach growled instantly when he went through the door—the smell of chicken broth was overwhelming. Before he knew it, he was settled on a bench with a bowl of what seemed to be something similar to Hühnereintopf, except a bit more watery. It didn’t matter much to Fakir; he was absolutely starving, and chicken stew had always been one of his favorites. (Although, up until recently, his absolute favorite soup had been a version of duck blood soup—not that he would have ever told Ahiru that.)
In between spoonfuls of soup, Fakir opened up his journal and started to see if there were any new entries. It was almost ridiculous, but Fakir had already gotten used to the idea of the journals and would check them constantly to see if there was any new information. He smiled slightly to himself when he saw the responses to his entries. It pleased him that people seemed interested in his stories. Maybe he’d try to write another entry tonight.
Content: Adventure! Drama! Romance! Or, well, actually, just Fakir walking around and getting some soup.
Setting: Lady of Lords Soup Kitchen [F5]
Time: Night
Warnings: None, Fakir's still behaving himself. Considering he's the only one who swears (or...even bleeds) in Princess Tutu, it's pretty remarkable.
It was dark by the time the train reached his destination. (Fakir normally would’ve described it as ‘after sunset’, but he wasn’t quite sure if it counted when the ‘sun’ was a painting.) When he stepped out of the station Fakir was struck with how different this area of the city looked when compared to the area around the gate. Even nearby the gate the buildings were obviously old, but they had been maintained well. In this area of the city, the paintings were faded, the rocks crumbling, and the roads were chipped. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was really a safe place to be “after dark.” He walked fast.
How in the world does anyone get by just walking around here? It must be at least a mile to the soup kitchen!
That moment, as if on cue, a resident of the city rode past on some sort of cycle.
Oh, Fakir thought, That explains it. I’ll have to see where I can get one tomorrow.
Between the swimming, the miles of walking, and the rough train ride, every bone in Fakir’s body was sore. The guide had said there were also some beds at the soup kitchen for people that didn’t have anywhere to stay. Fakir hoped it’d be all right for him to spend the night there—once he reached the soup kitchen, he knew that he’d need to rest.
He was relieved when he finally reached the Lady of Lords Soup Kitchen, and quickly stumbled into it, vaguely noting the painting next to the door of a woman that the kitchen was perhaps named after. His stomach growled instantly when he went through the door—the smell of chicken broth was overwhelming. Before he knew it, he was settled on a bench with a bowl of what seemed to be something similar to Hühnereintopf, except a bit more watery. It didn’t matter much to Fakir; he was absolutely starving, and chicken stew had always been one of his favorites. (Although, up until recently, his absolute favorite soup had been a version of duck blood soup—not that he would have ever told Ahiru that.)
In between spoonfuls of soup, Fakir opened up his journal and started to see if there were any new entries. It was almost ridiculous, but Fakir had already gotten used to the idea of the journals and would check them constantly to see if there was any new information. He smiled slightly to himself when he saw the responses to his entries. It pleased him that people seemed interested in his stories. Maybe he’d try to write another entry tonight.