[030] OOM - IVa of VII - ties that bind
Jan. 10th, 2010 06:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tristranthornTristran Thorn hates this.
He hates not knowing what manner of events are taking place atop the deck; he hates being tied up; and he hates that he isn't quite as flexible as he assumed he was.
The knife is wedged between his hands, fingers clumsily grasping at the hilt of it in a manner that would be helpful and not hinder his getting free. Cursing silently, licking his lips, he attempts to maneuver the blade towards the ropes currently keeping his wrists tightly bound together.
Of course, the task is not an easy one.
"Come on," he mutters, the sound of his own voice partially dispelling some of the frustration he is currently trying to keep at bay. "Almost there ... almost ..."
He scrunches his face a little, tongue poised at the edge of his mouth, and it occurs to him that he very likely looks silly. Yvaine would laugh if she saw his face now.
The thought of Yvaine further ignites his determination to be free. He cannot stand the idea of her being up there - alone - with the lot of those rude, uncouth bird creatures. He's well aware Yvaine can take care of herself if the situation demanded it of her (and sometimes when it doesn't) but it would really calm his nerves and his mind if he saw for himself that she was all right.
(And that none of those bloody birds laid a single hand - nay, wing - upon her.)
But at the sound of raucous laughter, his heart freezes.
As does his hands.
And the unmistakable second worst sound in the world reaches his ears. (Second, because the absolute worst sound would be that of Yvaine's helpless scream.)
It is the sound of a metal blade clanging to the floor.
"Idiot!" he curses.
He scoots back a little, head turned as far as it would go to look over his shoulder and locate the lost knife. It lies on its side, harmless and flat against the wooden deck.
He sighs.
It would be most helpful if he were more flexible.
---
It had taken longer than he would have liked, but Tristran is finally free of his bindings.
The knife is in one hand. The chair is tipped over on its side (rather pathetically), a coil of discarded ropes left beside it, cut roughly to indicate an escapee.
And that very escapee is now at the door, ear pressed up against the wood to hear for any approaching creatures.
Then, feeling as safe as he is going to be aboard this enemy ship, he slips out in search of his star.
He hates not knowing what manner of events are taking place atop the deck; he hates being tied up; and he hates that he isn't quite as flexible as he assumed he was.
The knife is wedged between his hands, fingers clumsily grasping at the hilt of it in a manner that would be helpful and not hinder his getting free. Cursing silently, licking his lips, he attempts to maneuver the blade towards the ropes currently keeping his wrists tightly bound together.
Of course, the task is not an easy one.
"Come on," he mutters, the sound of his own voice partially dispelling some of the frustration he is currently trying to keep at bay. "Almost there ... almost ..."
He scrunches his face a little, tongue poised at the edge of his mouth, and it occurs to him that he very likely looks silly. Yvaine would laugh if she saw his face now.
The thought of Yvaine further ignites his determination to be free. He cannot stand the idea of her being up there - alone - with the lot of those rude, uncouth bird creatures. He's well aware Yvaine can take care of herself if the situation demanded it of her (and sometimes when it doesn't) but it would really calm his nerves and his mind if he saw for himself that she was all right.
(And that none of those bloody birds laid a single hand - nay, wing - upon her.)
But at the sound of raucous laughter, his heart freezes.
As does his hands.
And the unmistakable second worst sound in the world reaches his ears. (Second, because the absolute worst sound would be that of Yvaine's helpless scream.)
It is the sound of a metal blade clanging to the floor.
"Idiot!" he curses.
He scoots back a little, head turned as far as it would go to look over his shoulder and locate the lost knife. It lies on its side, harmless and flat against the wooden deck.
He sighs.
It would be most helpful if he were more flexible.
---
It had taken longer than he would have liked, but Tristran is finally free of his bindings.
The knife is in one hand. The chair is tipped over on its side (rather pathetically), a coil of discarded ropes left beside it, cut roughly to indicate an escapee.
And that very escapee is now at the door, ear pressed up against the wood to hear for any approaching creatures.
Then, feeling as safe as he is going to be aboard this enemy ship, he slips out in search of his star.
