18th September, 1888 — Chance D'Amour
He'd forgotten what it was like, living with people. In a town. He'd managed it before, of course, at various intersections of his life; but it turned out it was a learned skill, one that could grow rusty. Or lost entirely. (Maybe he'd not ever learnt it to begin with.)
There were good points about Irvingly. Eavan, the Walshes, a cosy sense of being. He was growing fond of the zoo and its inhabitants already. He'd explored the nearby Hollow extensively, was grateful for the forest and the highlands on all sides. The middle of Irvingly itself was... questionable. Perhaps it was how he'd started off with it, plunging into the expedition in the fog, into hailstones and fire and a pall of unease - the strangeness of all that - but now that it had turned back to tidy straight streets and neat brick houses and a square at the centre, Conall was no less unsettled.
There was also that matter of people, again. His circle of acquaintances had not gained anything in girth, really, since the expedition (though he'd be glad, certainly, to see none of those blokes again for the next fifty years), but the place was compact enough that certain faces were growing familiar around and about. He'd not taken to many of them.
Which was why he had all but bolted at the sight of a neighbour with whom he'd already gotten into a tussle or two (though not physical, yet), clenching his jaw and speeding up his striding until he'd crossed the porch of the closest building in the square with false purpose, doing his best to pretend they had not crossed his sights at all. He'd flung open the door with some gusto and hurtled in like a charging bison without bothering to look first: it was this which saw him accidentally ramming right into the nearest table with far too much force, everything upon it rattling perilously and a bruise already sprouting on his side. That embarrassment was almost secondary, however, for the moment; primary was the look of horror on his face as he took in the rich amber fabric everywhere, the dainty teacups and posh clientele, the fancy little tea menus lettered with some ridiculous pretentious name.
The Irvingly Arms? He could handle. This? Not likely. Conall was spared only from bolting back out by the recollection of what he was trying to avoid, and by his gaze awkwardly falling on the occupier of the table he'd just assailed.
There were good points about Irvingly. Eavan, the Walshes, a cosy sense of being. He was growing fond of the zoo and its inhabitants already. He'd explored the nearby Hollow extensively, was grateful for the forest and the highlands on all sides. The middle of Irvingly itself was... questionable. Perhaps it was how he'd started off with it, plunging into the expedition in the fog, into hailstones and fire and a pall of unease - the strangeness of all that - but now that it had turned back to tidy straight streets and neat brick houses and a square at the centre, Conall was no less unsettled.
There was also that matter of people, again. His circle of acquaintances had not gained anything in girth, really, since the expedition (though he'd be glad, certainly, to see none of those blokes again for the next fifty years), but the place was compact enough that certain faces were growing familiar around and about. He'd not taken to many of them.
Which was why he had all but bolted at the sight of a neighbour with whom he'd already gotten into a tussle or two (though not physical, yet), clenching his jaw and speeding up his striding until he'd crossed the porch of the closest building in the square with false purpose, doing his best to pretend they had not crossed his sights at all. He'd flung open the door with some gusto and hurtled in like a charging bison without bothering to look first: it was this which saw him accidentally ramming right into the nearest table with far too much force, everything upon it rattling perilously and a bruise already sprouting on his side. That embarrassment was almost secondary, however, for the moment; primary was the look of horror on his face as he took in the rich amber fabric everywhere, the dainty teacups and posh clientele, the fancy little tea menus lettered with some ridiculous pretentious name.
The Irvingly Arms? He could handle. This? Not likely. Conall was spared only from bolting back out by the recollection of what he was trying to avoid, and by his gaze awkwardly falling on the occupier of the table he'd just assailed.
