Post by Camille on Jan 1, 2013 22:00:42 GMT -5
There may have been a slight worry over the situation buried in his bones, maybe a slight fear of annihilation deep within but he quickly displaced them for a little bit, hiding them instead in little fidgets, like his tongue sliding over his lip as if to pick up any nicotine left by the cigarette. It’s a pathetic habit that he finds no reason to quit, and he would have nearly sold his soul for one at the moment, but the room was smokeless, and there was still a part of Camille that was treating this like usual business, but instead with unfavorable conditions.
There was a twitch of his lip for unfavorable was an understatement.
He would have sold his soul to have never gone to that bar either. Yet what was done was done, and when Camille started thinking werewolves were cute little puppies might have been the day he would finally say hello and welcome a demon to his door. Bringing him onto the other subject, he was preparing the room for a reading, for a werewolf. Camille may have not had an agenda of things to do, but this had to be surely on one of the things he would never, ever do but he was doing it, had done it. It was a repeated action and this would be one just another out of the long line of torture, which in its long, overused pattern was becoming near dull and stale. It was maybe for that reason alone he was not losing his stomach or beginning to sweat like a pig.
That fact doesn’t exactly remove that pit in his stomach though. He still slightly smells of fear and the most bothersome thing is Camille is well aware they will pick that up quicker than he could his lighter. It’s a pathetic struggle but if it is pointed out he has a strong case, for the thing that would be next to him at the high moon turns into a rabid monster when he’s messing around with spells and clearing his head.
Not exactly the most wonderful mental picture.
The pacing hasn’t stopped though, not even after he had done this a numerable amount of times. He still moves from one end of the room to the next for five minutes before he finally gives in and lights some incense that begins to waft through the room. He has high hopes this time the smoke alarm won’t go off, because he’s had a few times where he’s set of the system and that wasn’t exactly fun with an impatient angry monster at the end of it. There’s a slight twitch at the memory, and he finds himself beginning to go back to his nervous habitat of twitching. These repeated rendezvous are beginning to wear on his health, or what he had of one before.
He ruffles his own hair before quietly laying down on the bed and closing his eyes. It’s a calculated move, instead of sleeping he meditates; clearing his mind and attempting to chill his nerves which were beginning to flake as the clock slowly (and sadly audibly) clicked by. His body stills, his breath slows and for a moment in time, a minute or five, his mind is clear and in a peaceful moment, somewhat helping with his attempts to drown out the anxious air of the room and reward it with something stilling and peaceful which works, for the moment anyway.
Camille is somewhat in a daze as he replenishes and lights new incense. He resorts to old tendencies once again, fingers dancing down to rid away of folds and other flaws from his moment of peace on the bed. Camille isn’t exactly dressed in the usual, casual clothes; instead dressed in his rather dark attire he wears for the job, with that creepy pendant that hangs past his chest with an all knowing eye. The outfit helps flare with the psychic persona, the sort of crystal-ball like fortune teller sort of thing and bordering on witchcraft. It’s helped with business, accenting the foreign unknown he stands for, still treating all of this like a business transaction for it’s the only way he can keep sane.
Cleaning wasn’t exactly a common nervous habit, but he is quickly straightening out the sheets of the ruffled bed and the pillows. Only when the room looks nearly flawless and better than when he came in does he stop, the minutes ticking by and the man at any time supposed to make his less than grand entrance. His fingers move to ruffle his hair again for the second time of the night, only for the green eyes to slightly widen at the realization he looks like he just got out of bed, which simply isn’t acceptable. He rushes to the bathroom to attempt to fix it, leaving the door slightly open (and thankfully for him, the room was on the first floor) as he hurriedly attempts to fix what can’t be fixed when he could barely see what was in the mirror except a blob of black if that.
It wasn’t exactly going how he was planning it, but at least he was trying.
There was a twitch of his lip for unfavorable was an understatement.
He would have sold his soul to have never gone to that bar either. Yet what was done was done, and when Camille started thinking werewolves were cute little puppies might have been the day he would finally say hello and welcome a demon to his door. Bringing him onto the other subject, he was preparing the room for a reading, for a werewolf. Camille may have not had an agenda of things to do, but this had to be surely on one of the things he would never, ever do but he was doing it, had done it. It was a repeated action and this would be one just another out of the long line of torture, which in its long, overused pattern was becoming near dull and stale. It was maybe for that reason alone he was not losing his stomach or beginning to sweat like a pig.
That fact doesn’t exactly remove that pit in his stomach though. He still slightly smells of fear and the most bothersome thing is Camille is well aware they will pick that up quicker than he could his lighter. It’s a pathetic struggle but if it is pointed out he has a strong case, for the thing that would be next to him at the high moon turns into a rabid monster when he’s messing around with spells and clearing his head.
Not exactly the most wonderful mental picture.
The pacing hasn’t stopped though, not even after he had done this a numerable amount of times. He still moves from one end of the room to the next for five minutes before he finally gives in and lights some incense that begins to waft through the room. He has high hopes this time the smoke alarm won’t go off, because he’s had a few times where he’s set of the system and that wasn’t exactly fun with an impatient angry monster at the end of it. There’s a slight twitch at the memory, and he finds himself beginning to go back to his nervous habitat of twitching. These repeated rendezvous are beginning to wear on his health, or what he had of one before.
He ruffles his own hair before quietly laying down on the bed and closing his eyes. It’s a calculated move, instead of sleeping he meditates; clearing his mind and attempting to chill his nerves which were beginning to flake as the clock slowly (and sadly audibly) clicked by. His body stills, his breath slows and for a moment in time, a minute or five, his mind is clear and in a peaceful moment, somewhat helping with his attempts to drown out the anxious air of the room and reward it with something stilling and peaceful which works, for the moment anyway.
Camille is somewhat in a daze as he replenishes and lights new incense. He resorts to old tendencies once again, fingers dancing down to rid away of folds and other flaws from his moment of peace on the bed. Camille isn’t exactly dressed in the usual, casual clothes; instead dressed in his rather dark attire he wears for the job, with that creepy pendant that hangs past his chest with an all knowing eye. The outfit helps flare with the psychic persona, the sort of crystal-ball like fortune teller sort of thing and bordering on witchcraft. It’s helped with business, accenting the foreign unknown he stands for, still treating all of this like a business transaction for it’s the only way he can keep sane.
Cleaning wasn’t exactly a common nervous habit, but he is quickly straightening out the sheets of the ruffled bed and the pillows. Only when the room looks nearly flawless and better than when he came in does he stop, the minutes ticking by and the man at any time supposed to make his less than grand entrance. His fingers move to ruffle his hair again for the second time of the night, only for the green eyes to slightly widen at the realization he looks like he just got out of bed, which simply isn’t acceptable. He rushes to the bathroom to attempt to fix it, leaving the door slightly open (and thankfully for him, the room was on the first floor) as he hurriedly attempts to fix what can’t be fixed when he could barely see what was in the mirror except a blob of black if that.
It wasn’t exactly going how he was planning it, but at least he was trying.
