So Narvin has not been enjoying his stay at Baedal. Though a nice and turning out to be a not very brief respite from the stuffy and gleaming halls of the Capitol, he was beginning to feel a bit torn at the seeming rescue and significantly less thankful as he wandered the streets. Hardly a perfect place, but least in the Capitol there weren't horrid little creatures running, flapping about and glaring at him with what felt to him was an undue amount of suspicion and hatred.
On second thoughts, perhaps it wasn't so different.
Despite the glares, Narvin kept moving, a familiar action, hoping not to attract even more fowl attention or provoke them into doing anything hostile with those talons and beaks. The robes he was wearing (Chancellery robes, made for pomposity and not practicality) wouldn't prove terribly conducive to a running escape, and as the flock of eyes peering down on him grew in numbers, he was certain that even if he were to hit every time he fired his stazers (for once he was glad about this other Gallifrey's upsetting amount of paranoia even by his standards) he'd probably be accosted by two dozen more when he ran out of energy.
The problem was, he wasn't entirely sure where he was going. He'd just wanted to be out of the 'inn', or the excuse for, as soon as possible, unable to lay about. A home then; he was looking for... no, not a home. He had to get back to Gallifrey, the not-his-Gallifrey where Romana was and Leela wasn't really, which would be easier if he had any method of doing so. He revised his thoughts. Then, for the moment, he was looking for a place to stay. There. Much more absent of the implication of permanence.
Cursing, usually silently, occasionally out loud, at his new robes had become commonplace for Narvin. His head quickly filled itself to the brim with several hundred different curses as his foot caught one of the inner hems and plunged him forward, and suddenly brought a mass of not entirely tangible black wings and sharp talons down upon him.
Thus, in a street not far from Queequeg's, there begins quite the cacophony of furious, frustrated shouting in amongst the chatters of the not-quite birds, and the sound of stazer blasts silencing a few but certainly not nearly enough of them.
no subject
On second thoughts, perhaps it wasn't so different.
Despite the glares, Narvin kept moving, a familiar action, hoping not to attract even more fowl attention or provoke them into doing anything hostile with those talons and beaks. The robes he was wearing (Chancellery robes, made for pomposity and not practicality) wouldn't prove terribly conducive to a running escape, and as the flock of eyes peering down on him grew in numbers, he was certain that even if he were to hit every time he fired his stazers (for once he was glad about this other Gallifrey's upsetting amount of paranoia even by his standards) he'd probably be accosted by two dozen more when he ran out of energy.
The problem was, he wasn't entirely sure where he was going. He'd just wanted to be out of the 'inn', or the excuse for, as soon as possible, unable to lay about. A home then; he was looking for... no, not a home. He had to get back to Gallifrey, the not-his-Gallifrey where Romana was and Leela wasn't really, which would be easier if he had any method of doing so. He revised his thoughts. Then, for the moment, he was looking for a place to stay. There. Much more absent of the implication of permanence.
Cursing, usually silently, occasionally out loud, at his new robes had become commonplace for Narvin. His head quickly filled itself to the brim with several hundred different curses as his foot caught one of the inner hems and plunged him forward, and suddenly brought a mass of not entirely tangible black wings and sharp talons down upon him.
Thus, in a street not far from Queequeg's, there begins quite the cacophony of furious, frustrated shouting in amongst the chatters of the not-quite birds, and the sound of stazer blasts silencing a few but certainly not nearly enough of them.