Post by Finnley Carver on Nov 25, 2012 14:57:27 GMT -5
The grandfather clock chimed slowly, monotonously, making the seconds take even longer then he felt they should be. Absence of a heart beat and lack of breath made that harder to tell of course. Perspective was all in the mind, and right now, he was staring hard at the chess board and the miniature army arrayed against him.
They were sitting at a table by themselves in the dark, musty old room, drawn curtains letting in some of the morning twilight. A silent student was seated in a large easy chair, perusing some old tome large enough to mask her entire upper body from view. Firelight cast an orange glow to everything, from the dark rugs to the stone walls.
One sat on a simple four-legged chair, leaning over the table.
The other was floating, scorning gravity with his legs crossed. His head rested atop his right palm, forming an angle with his knee.
Finnley watched, sighing in defeat as the bishop moved telekinetically into place and finished boxing in his king. It wasn't a "real" sigh of course. His body moved, expanding for make believe air, then pushing his imagination out unto the world.
But there it was: another round over.
He reached forward from his chair, stretching an incorporeal finger forward. He "tapped" the king over with a telekinetic nudge, when his finger got close enough to "touch" the royal white piece..
"Another go?" the levitating wizard-in-training asked in a characteristically smug tone of voice. Elves: why did they have to be so arrogant about it all?
"Sure," he answered anyway. The elf was already grabbing his assortment of pieces and fitting them all back in their starting positions, seven at a time.
Finnley took his time. He lifted his hand up, "grabbing" a piece with his mind, not the fingers that weren't really there, and depositing them one by one and two by two. He must have been taking more than his time though, for the impatient elf; the last eight pieces snapped in place without him touching them.
Taking his time while losing was one thing. Taking his time before they started must have been another.
"Ready to lose again?" the elf was cocking a victorious look already.
"It's just a game," the ghost tried to brush off the intimidation factor with a shrug. He eyed the growing light outside, and the freedom he knew would come with it, but he went along with the next round all the same.
"Checkmate," the elf said, now so full of himself he could probably spit out a life size copy. "Again."
"Yup," the ghost just acknowledged that with zen-like acceptance. "Again. I'm getting better though."
The elf scoffed. "Sure, you are."
The elf had mastered sarcasm - good for him.
"One more time?" the ghost legitimately asked as he began carefully putting his pieces back in place.
"You're a glutton for punishment, Finn," the elf gave a cackle to himself.
The ghost just shrugged again.
"Yeah, I guess I am."
They were sitting at a table by themselves in the dark, musty old room, drawn curtains letting in some of the morning twilight. A silent student was seated in a large easy chair, perusing some old tome large enough to mask her entire upper body from view. Firelight cast an orange glow to everything, from the dark rugs to the stone walls.
One sat on a simple four-legged chair, leaning over the table.
The other was floating, scorning gravity with his legs crossed. His head rested atop his right palm, forming an angle with his knee.
Finnley watched, sighing in defeat as the bishop moved telekinetically into place and finished boxing in his king. It wasn't a "real" sigh of course. His body moved, expanding for make believe air, then pushing his imagination out unto the world.
But there it was: another round over.
He reached forward from his chair, stretching an incorporeal finger forward. He "tapped" the king over with a telekinetic nudge, when his finger got close enough to "touch" the royal white piece..
"Another go?" the levitating wizard-in-training asked in a characteristically smug tone of voice. Elves: why did they have to be so arrogant about it all?
"Sure," he answered anyway. The elf was already grabbing his assortment of pieces and fitting them all back in their starting positions, seven at a time.
Finnley took his time. He lifted his hand up, "grabbing" a piece with his mind, not the fingers that weren't really there, and depositing them one by one and two by two. He must have been taking more than his time though, for the impatient elf; the last eight pieces snapped in place without him touching them.
Taking his time while losing was one thing. Taking his time before they started must have been another.
"Ready to lose again?" the elf was cocking a victorious look already.
"It's just a game," the ghost tried to brush off the intimidation factor with a shrug. He eyed the growing light outside, and the freedom he knew would come with it, but he went along with the next round all the same.
"Checkmate," the elf said, now so full of himself he could probably spit out a life size copy. "Again."
"Yup," the ghost just acknowledged that with zen-like acceptance. "Again. I'm getting better though."
The elf scoffed. "Sure, you are."
The elf had mastered sarcasm - good for him.
"One more time?" the ghost legitimately asked as he began carefully putting his pieces back in place.
"You're a glutton for punishment, Finn," the elf gave a cackle to himself.
The ghost just shrugged again.
"Yeah, I guess I am."