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May. 23rd, 2005 11:19 pmCall it whatever you like.
A long bath, today. Black jeans. White shirt of soft lambswool, with white embroidery. Even his boots look well cared-for.
Call it intuition, for Roland Deschain has ever listened to the small voice inside.
He is sitting in his chair, smoking, and remembering his room in the Dreaming: a window of stained glass with a sky so blue it must be dream, an impossibly green-leafed
(world)
tree, and two trellises of twined roses.
He fingers the silver cross and silver medal around his neck, unconsciously.
A long bath, today. Black jeans. White shirt of soft lambswool, with white embroidery. Even his boots look well cared-for.
Call it intuition, for Roland Deschain has ever listened to the small voice inside.
He is sitting in his chair, smoking, and remembering his room in the Dreaming: a window of stained glass with a sky so blue it must be dream, an impossibly green-leafed
(world)
tree, and two trellises of twined roses.
He fingers the silver cross and silver medal around his neck, unconsciously.
