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]
In what? What do you think I'll do?
[spam]
[spam]
That won't ever change. I'll always try to be good to you.
[Maybe that's enough. Maybe he can make it be enough.]
[spam]
[spam]
[spam]