Post by Tormaigh MacRagallach on May 14, 2007 20:54:55 GMT -5
[OOC: This thread will (eventually) contain a series of philosophical dissertations that will be a direct result of Torm's perceptions and reasonings, for which this first post will set the scene and mood. Probably boring to most, but it will help me personally in developing the character a bit more. Closed means closed; please be considerate. ;D ]
A single oil lantern sheds a warm light on the red-streaked black wood of Torm's micro-mechanical work-desk, as well as the white polymeric work surface inlaid into part of the top. Along the peripheries of its surface is compiled an astonishing array of the tools of the trade. Series of compound magnifying lenses supported on silver stands, cases of impossibly thin and tiny tools, miniature cabinets full of gears, axles, cogs, and springs of all sizes and varieties are among the items present therein. Also, there is a photograph depicting a large number of extremely jovial and extremely orange/red-haired people, one of which is Torm.
The machinist in question is himself seated in a chair at the desk, but is not using the desk for its intended purpose. No, for now, all the grand and intricate purposes for its existence and its contents are all for naught, as it has been reduced to a mere footrest. Torm's booted feet are propped up on the desk, and the machinist is lounging idly, staring at the ceiling and thinking thoughts a thousand miles away.
Some would call the one-light dimness of the room depressing and off-putting, but to Torm the place feels very cozy and reassuring at the moment. More notably, it was extremely conductive to a pensive state of mind. Back home, there had been a room in the house that had been referred to as "The Growlery" that had very much the same feel. Basically a library and study, the Growlery was a place that someone would go when they wanted to just think; to just escape for a while or to organize thoughts or come to grips with things or whatever else you needed it for.
After a few more minutes, Torm gets an idea. He rummages around in a desk drawer and pulls out a clockwork beetle, this one larger than the ones he usually carries about. Also, he grabs a stack of off-white parchment from the drawer before sliding it shut. After winding the bug and running a little mana through it to prime the system, he places it on the top-left corner of a sheet of parchment laid out on the desk. Test, Test, One, Two. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs. Torm says aloud, and the metal insect scurries across the paper, printing his words in a green-black ink. He had never kept a journal of any sort; it seemed like a silly idea and a waste of time. However, on occasion, he has before poured thoughts out on paper for no particular reason. Often, they are thrown away the next day, lest someone read them and think differently of him because of it.
Torm dictates quietly, conscious of the lateness of the late hour, and the little scarab scuttles across the paper, occasionally prompting him to pause to replace the paper.
A single oil lantern sheds a warm light on the red-streaked black wood of Torm's micro-mechanical work-desk, as well as the white polymeric work surface inlaid into part of the top. Along the peripheries of its surface is compiled an astonishing array of the tools of the trade. Series of compound magnifying lenses supported on silver stands, cases of impossibly thin and tiny tools, miniature cabinets full of gears, axles, cogs, and springs of all sizes and varieties are among the items present therein. Also, there is a photograph depicting a large number of extremely jovial and extremely orange/red-haired people, one of which is Torm.
The machinist in question is himself seated in a chair at the desk, but is not using the desk for its intended purpose. No, for now, all the grand and intricate purposes for its existence and its contents are all for naught, as it has been reduced to a mere footrest. Torm's booted feet are propped up on the desk, and the machinist is lounging idly, staring at the ceiling and thinking thoughts a thousand miles away.
Some would call the one-light dimness of the room depressing and off-putting, but to Torm the place feels very cozy and reassuring at the moment. More notably, it was extremely conductive to a pensive state of mind. Back home, there had been a room in the house that had been referred to as "The Growlery" that had very much the same feel. Basically a library and study, the Growlery was a place that someone would go when they wanted to just think; to just escape for a while or to organize thoughts or come to grips with things or whatever else you needed it for.
After a few more minutes, Torm gets an idea. He rummages around in a desk drawer and pulls out a clockwork beetle, this one larger than the ones he usually carries about. Also, he grabs a stack of off-white parchment from the drawer before sliding it shut. After winding the bug and running a little mana through it to prime the system, he places it on the top-left corner of a sheet of parchment laid out on the desk. Test, Test, One, Two. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs. Torm says aloud, and the metal insect scurries across the paper, printing his words in a green-black ink. He had never kept a journal of any sort; it seemed like a silly idea and a waste of time. However, on occasion, he has before poured thoughts out on paper for no particular reason. Often, they are thrown away the next day, lest someone read them and think differently of him because of it.
Torm dictates quietly, conscious of the lateness of the late hour, and the little scarab scuttles across the paper, occasionally prompting him to pause to replace the paper.