Bagoas of Susa (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
masterofmydestiny) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2012-11-12 03:20 pm
masterofmydestiny) wrote in taxonomites2012-11-12 03:20 pm
Entry tags:
[location + visual]
When very nearly a fortnight has passed since Bagoas woke up in someone else's body, he finds himself increasingly restless. Tempers fly high, much higher than he's quite accustomed to, which in itself is quite unsettling. He spends his days keeping busy, if not with chores then exercise; forcing this body to do as he wills it, one small victory after the other. He stretches, he walks up and down the staircase (it gets easier every day, and every day he is a little less winded than previously), he dances.
Or rather, he attempts dance, as dissonant coordination makes for stumbling, awkward movement, and his centre of gravity seems misplaced, and more often than not he ends up smacking himself in the face.
It is degrading in a way he didn't think possible, but it does not deter him. He is a survivor first and a servant second (or third, or last: his inner grading fluctuates daily), he tells himself. He does not quit easily.
One cannot say as much about his penchant for boredom, which seems if possible emphasized: Sherlock's is a restless mind, whereas Bagoas is accustomed to a restless body. The one doesn't exclude or preclude the other, but combining his habits with Sherlock's brain is, apparently, not entirely a successful merge.
Finally he caves in, asking Smecker if he may borrow the things he sets in his ears to listen to music (and how do they work?, and I shall return them presently).
Not five minutes later, he is browsing the rough Taxonian equivalent to Spotify. Should anyone drop by the Birdhouse, for reasons entirely their own, they might find him with eyes closed and frown etched into his forehead, arms moving about as he attempts to get a feel for the music.
A bit later, after returning the earphones to their rightful owner with expressed gratitude, he returns to his tablet, having decided to address the other captives.
"This is Bagoas speaking. I can't be the only one ready to crawl out of my skin," he says, earnest and wide-eyed as perhaps Sherlock has never been. He wears a dark blue boat neck t-shirt with long sleeves, plain trousers (though they remain off camera) in some sort of soft, heavy fabric, and his hair tied away from his face by way of a scarf.
"It's terribly frustrating, being cooped up here. I used to walk for miles every single day... I'm finding this forced immobility most disagreeable, but--" he swallows, a line of tension to his jaw: there and gone in a flash. "I'm not venturing outside. But...
"I haven't spoken to so many of you in such a long time. How is everyone? Are you unharmed still? Are you going mad with boredom like I am?"
And then, as he awaits replies, he dictates a locked message to a certain Mister Holmes: I would see you at your earliest convenience, preferably in person. There is something I need to discuss with you.
Or rather, he attempts dance, as dissonant coordination makes for stumbling, awkward movement, and his centre of gravity seems misplaced, and more often than not he ends up smacking himself in the face.
It is degrading in a way he didn't think possible, but it does not deter him. He is a survivor first and a servant second (or third, or last: his inner grading fluctuates daily), he tells himself. He does not quit easily.
One cannot say as much about his penchant for boredom, which seems if possible emphasized: Sherlock's is a restless mind, whereas Bagoas is accustomed to a restless body. The one doesn't exclude or preclude the other, but combining his habits with Sherlock's brain is, apparently, not entirely a successful merge.
Finally he caves in, asking Smecker if he may borrow the things he sets in his ears to listen to music (and how do they work?, and I shall return them presently).
Not five minutes later, he is browsing the rough Taxonian equivalent to Spotify. Should anyone drop by the Birdhouse, for reasons entirely their own, they might find him with eyes closed and frown etched into his forehead, arms moving about as he attempts to get a feel for the music.
A bit later, after returning the earphones to their rightful owner with expressed gratitude, he returns to his tablet, having decided to address the other captives.
"This is Bagoas speaking. I can't be the only one ready to crawl out of my skin," he says, earnest and wide-eyed as perhaps Sherlock has never been. He wears a dark blue boat neck t-shirt with long sleeves, plain trousers (though they remain off camera) in some sort of soft, heavy fabric, and his hair tied away from his face by way of a scarf.
"It's terribly frustrating, being cooped up here. I used to walk for miles every single day... I'm finding this forced immobility most disagreeable, but--" he swallows, a line of tension to his jaw: there and gone in a flash. "I'm not venturing outside. But...
"I haven't spoken to so many of you in such a long time. How is everyone? Are you unharmed still? Are you going mad with boredom like I am?"
And then, as he awaits replies, he dictates a locked message to a certain Mister Holmes: I would see you at your earliest convenience, preferably in person. There is something I need to discuss with you.