Of all the creatures in all of the worlds, it had to be dragons.
The part of Waver that wasn't looking around for every possible escape route grimly noted that such event seemed to a part of a reoccurring life theme. The only two things he wanted, quiet and seeing Iskandar again, were constantly thwarted by everything else. Clock Tower, his debt to the El-Melloi family, his students, everything and everyone not named Gray really. Dragons were nothing more than a variation on a theme.
Not that this variation was not to be taken seriously. Waver did take it seriously, in so far that he was scrambling through his coat pocket to fish out a cigar. Laughable, really, smoking in the face of a firebreathing dragon, but Waver knew that it could buy him safety. If he lit a cigar, the magecraft he embedded in each and every single one he carried would spring to life, creating a bounded field around him. At the very least, he could hope that the dragon would get bored of seeing fire bounce off a shield and go elsewhere. Assuming his magecraft decided to work at all, of course.
More embers came pouring down, just as Waver pulled out what he was looking for. Noticing that his shoulder had a bit of a flame to it, Waver put the cigar's end over the small fire.
"Light, damn you."
***
b. crossroads
The Crossroads represented an opportunity for one of Waver's truest loves: finding a quiet place to be, and ignoring everyone around him. Back home, this mean staying in his apartment with a few video games over the weekend, ignoring grading, but there was no such technology available. He chose a quiet corner to occupy instead, one hand around a glass of wine and an air of trying to ignore the dim chatter of the world around him. There was precious little else to do, although Waver hoped that someone might leave a book behind so that he might have some form of entertainment.
"Of all the days not to have my usual bag with me," he chided himself. That bag always had a copy Odyssey in it, a copy too precious to him by half and well worn with highlighted passages and notations. "Fuck."
He breathed out, leaning back in his chair, trying to remember the first few lines of the poem. He'd seek out paper and pen if he could recall, and start writing it all down if he had to.
lord el melloi ii-fate-rifter
Of all the creatures in all of the worlds, it had to be dragons.
The part of Waver that wasn't looking around for every possible escape route grimly noted that such event seemed to a part of a reoccurring life theme. The only two things he wanted, quiet and seeing Iskandar again, were constantly thwarted by everything else. Clock Tower, his debt to the El-Melloi family, his students, everything and everyone not named Gray really. Dragons were nothing more than a variation on a theme.
Not that this variation was not to be taken seriously. Waver did take it seriously, in so far that he was scrambling through his coat pocket to fish out a cigar. Laughable, really, smoking in the face of a firebreathing dragon, but Waver knew that it could buy him safety. If he lit a cigar, the magecraft he embedded in each and every single one he carried would spring to life, creating a bounded field around him. At the very least, he could hope that the dragon would get bored of seeing fire bounce off a shield and go elsewhere. Assuming his magecraft decided to work at all, of course.
More embers came pouring down, just as Waver pulled out what he was looking for. Noticing that his shoulder had a bit of a flame to it, Waver put the cigar's end over the small fire.
"Light, damn you."
***
b. crossroads
The Crossroads represented an opportunity for one of Waver's truest loves: finding a quiet place to be, and ignoring everyone around him. Back home, this mean staying in his apartment with a few video games over the weekend, ignoring grading, but there was no such technology available. He chose a quiet corner to occupy instead, one hand around a glass of wine and an air of trying to ignore the dim chatter of the world around him. There was precious little else to do, although Waver hoped that someone might leave a book behind so that he might have some form of entertainment.
"Of all the days not to have my usual bag with me," he chided himself. That bag always had a copy Odyssey in it, a copy too precious to him by half and well worn with highlighted passages and notations. "Fuck."
He breathed out, leaning back in his chair, trying to remember the first few lines of the poem. He'd seek out paper and pen if he could recall, and start writing it all down if he had to.