Open to anyone. It takes place a little later in this Downtime period. Contemplative, political or scholarly characters will find him easier to deal with; others might find the character pretty antagonistic or confrontational. If you don't mind either way, dive in.))Dragoș was very aware of his two hands on the railing, and below him the cold river hung, black and glittering; here the Avon looked like a frozen grin hidden beneath the weir, but above it: the city night and the sulphur fugue and the sprawling dark country's indifferent consciousness gathered to a kind of Meaning.
He hated Meaning. It seemed to follow this city like a plague.
Recent memories detonate: mountains like black glass and the blood-hot howl of wolves on Romania's still air; the castle sprawling out above the forest. Older memories tremble on their individual spider silks, all leading to their appropriate fuses, but Dragoș holds them bay for now; he doesn't want to think of the past. He can feel that abyss open out, a cold gust of premonition behind him, like standing with your back to a colossal drop.
Memory full, computers will say, in a remote and blurred future - managing with machine pathos to make users feel like they've force fed them, stuffing them full as if they were foie gras geese.
But Dragoș lives in an era before all that, before the future has come with its neoned cities and newspaper flashes and reaching claws. Besides which, Dragoș really hates Oracles. He hates all their future talk. He hates Prophets and Visionaries and holds a special loathing of Seers. More now than ever before.
Half the time I'm drowning, the other half I'm bodiless, tossed around and swung or pulled through tubes filled with fast-moving water. Sharp currents. There's no surface so you can't find it.
He tightens his hands on the rail. Uninvited, the bodies of some long forgotten Roman guards swim forward into mind, followed by another memory: his murdered tomb builders in a moonlit heap, a poignant assembly of nipples and feet and grinning sliced faces, covered in dust. He'd been so livid; he'd died and they still hadn't gotten it right. As if with follow-up permission, random other images came and went; Niccolo Linario on a red damask couch looking up at him and saying in Latin: They've arrested Machiavelli. Did you hear?
For the monster as for the man life's one long diminishing surprise at how much of your wretched self you find room for. Dragoș stared down at the dark river, and considered why everyone bothered with this world. Perchance it was habit. Perchance fear of death. Perchance still, some souls even felt false sense of security with the material of this plane.
Why are you here, then.
Feelings jammed like typewriter keys. Dragoș released the railing and took several steps back from it, idly forcing his hand through his hair - and ignored that it was shaking. Several more steps - and turn. He made his way to a black wrought-iron bench, resting in the shadow of a tree, and took to it, before beginning the long process of rebraiding his hair to give his hands something physical to do, and release the pent-up energy within them.
