You’re only as old as you feel (Open RP)
Oct. 11th, 2008 12:27 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
( It had occurred to Gustav that it seemed to be autumn again, and he should have had a birthday by now )
He’d been thirty-five when he’d departed Ivalice, and it had been early in the year. He had arrived in summer, and probably had a birthday since then, but was he really thirty-seven? This puzzled him enough so that there ended up being no candles on the cake the house elves brought out for him, besides the fact that thirty-anything candles would be an immense hassle. He didn’t remember the birthday in between, and he had lost a few months, so if anyone asked he might as well go with thirty-six.
The cake was set out at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. He sat with a slice cut out of it, skimming a book on judicial astrology. Nothing about battle compatibilities so far, but with this touch of the familiar he was holding out hope for more.
Three bites later, he stared at the plate in bemusement, then at what he could see of himself. An observer might note that he seemed to have shed a number of years. To Gustav, this was just the age he should be, one thing that was right in a sea of incongruities. Where was he? Where were the rest of the Knights of Death? What was this getup he was in? He hadn’t been drinking that much, had he?
“Hey,” he called, getting to his feet. “Wiegraf?”
The cake stood abandoned on the table. Somewhere, a house elf was snickering.
((Pieces of cake, as per chocolate plots, have whatever magical side-effect the mun would like. Have a ball))
He’d been thirty-five when he’d departed Ivalice, and it had been early in the year. He had arrived in summer, and probably had a birthday since then, but was he really thirty-seven? This puzzled him enough so that there ended up being no candles on the cake the house elves brought out for him, besides the fact that thirty-anything candles would be an immense hassle. He didn’t remember the birthday in between, and he had lost a few months, so if anyone asked he might as well go with thirty-six.
The cake was set out at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. He sat with a slice cut out of it, skimming a book on judicial astrology. Nothing about battle compatibilities so far, but with this touch of the familiar he was holding out hope for more.
Three bites later, he stared at the plate in bemusement, then at what he could see of himself. An observer might note that he seemed to have shed a number of years. To Gustav, this was just the age he should be, one thing that was right in a sea of incongruities. Where was he? Where were the rest of the Knights of Death? What was this getup he was in? He hadn’t been drinking that much, had he?
“Hey,” he called, getting to his feet. “Wiegraf?”
The cake stood abandoned on the table. Somewhere, a house elf was snickering.
((Pieces of cake, as per chocolate plots, have whatever magical side-effect the mun would like. Have a ball))