Simon Monroe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irishrotter) wrote2015-04-19 08:15 pm
irishrotter) wrote2015-04-19 08:15 pm
Ninth Rising
[Friends filter, after the port]
[This broadcast is a little bit delayed compared to most of the others, like there's something Simon needed to do prior to checking in. Still, he looks as worried and relieved as everyone else when he does reach out to his friends.
No one will be surprised to know that neither Arthas nor Sylvanas remain on this list.]
Tell me you're all okay.
[Spam, open]
[Simon's communicator remains quiet after that. He answers his messages in a generally timely fashion, but there are no further broadcasts. The lack of sermons from the pulpit continues as it did after the sha took him over; he has no sermons to give. He's not suffering from the aches and pains of those who death tolled on the Barge, but he feels an echo of their weary faces in his own soul. He feels exhausted, too, even if it's a different kind of exhaustion.
On the surface, nothing has changed except that he has an emergency supply of neurotriptyline on him at all times now -- and thank Christ, only a few people know about that, anyway. Beyond that, though, he feels almost as lost and aimless as he was out in the desert. He shuffles along his daily routine. He takes his shot obediently when he wakes up, spends his mornings in the chapel and his afternoons in the library and doesn't really seem to bother with anything else, though he does still sometime turns up on the deck in the evenings to watch the stars go by.]
[This broadcast is a little bit delayed compared to most of the others, like there's something Simon needed to do prior to checking in. Still, he looks as worried and relieved as everyone else when he does reach out to his friends.
No one will be surprised to know that neither Arthas nor Sylvanas remain on this list.]
Tell me you're all okay.
[Spam, open]
[Simon's communicator remains quiet after that. He answers his messages in a generally timely fashion, but there are no further broadcasts. The lack of sermons from the pulpit continues as it did after the sha took him over; he has no sermons to give. He's not suffering from the aches and pains of those who death tolled on the Barge, but he feels an echo of their weary faces in his own soul. He feels exhausted, too, even if it's a different kind of exhaustion.
On the surface, nothing has changed except that he has an emergency supply of neurotriptyline on him at all times now -- and thank Christ, only a few people know about that, anyway. Beyond that, though, he feels almost as lost and aimless as he was out in the desert. He shuffles along his daily routine. He takes his shot obediently when he wakes up, spends his mornings in the chapel and his afternoons in the library and doesn't really seem to bother with anything else, though he does still sometime turns up on the deck in the evenings to watch the stars go by.]
spam
He only notices Simon the second after he's already sat down heavily. Ricki nods a quick 'hello,' and then sips from his cup.]
Morning.
spam
Silent and small, he turns his head to watch Ricki at the sound of footsteps, raising a brow at both the cup of coffee and the discarded rubber gloves.]
Morning.
[He casts his eyes back towards the garbage, cocking his head.
...can I ask?
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[Ricki explains, with a little grimace. There's a lot of scrubbing up after rotten and bloody eviscerated monsters.]
Most of it is done now, but there was a bit of a fetid pool in one of the bottom back corners, is all.
[And he's fine around dead bodies, so he'd taken it on. Afterwards, though, he'd decided he'd earned a break; thus, the coffee.]
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[Simon is, of course, perfectly adept with dead bodies, but not with disposing of them. Even with the monsters, the idea makes him vaguely uncomfortable. Besides, he doesn't love being so face-to-face, literally, with the lingering evidence of Arthas' betrayal. He's mostly focused his attentions elsewhere. On fixing what he can, where he can, and trying to make that be enough.
He has been cleaning in here, though, that much is clear. Or it's clear that someone has, anyway.]
Thank you for the help, then. What brings you in here?
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[He admits, glancing around the place. The destruction has obviously touched it this time around, but he can usually count on the place to be hushed.]
I make it in when I can. What about you?
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[He sips his coffee.]
Must be one of the nicer places to work, on the ship. Quiet.
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[Well, that and Letty had offered and the sha in Simon's soul had flipped out about it.]
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[Is the best way he can think to put it.]
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[Although admittedly, he likes the cross in his bedroom, and the icons of Mary and Jesus on the wall. But he's come to realize that's more a personal preference than anything necessary.]
I used to preach out of my living room.
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[He asks, with genuine interest. Bootstrapped together situations like that were common where he grew up, but he wouldn't have pegged Simon for it.]
What made that necessary?
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A very small and highly mobile congregation.
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[Which makes him glance at Simon again. If there was every anyone who'd been there-]
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[He raises a brow slightly. He's seen plenty of people deny that they were dead up here, but he's never seen someone go only halfway with it.]
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Onwards, I'd hope.
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[Of heaven or hell, he doesn't specify which.]