hot-blooded

         With a conceding groan, he turned around from the raven’s bed, and pouted to himself as he made his way toward the haphazard pile of clothes. Unfortunately, they weren’t exactly fashionable, nor flattering for him— if anything, they looked like appropriately sized sacks. Was he a potato sack now? He sincerely hoped that his clothes would dry by the morning…

         Sighing, he slipped the towel around his waist off, but kept his smallclothes intact. (He would be too embarrassed to go ‘commando’ when there was someone else in the room… let alone, at all with the exception of taking a shower or a bath.) Reluctantly, he held the brown clothing in his hands, and inspected it to note the material used to make them. It was actually quite soft, which came as a surprise to him. “I’m surprised they had clothes for us to borrow, Owain.” Inigo remarked, not caring if he wouldn’t heed him with half-lidded eyes and evident weariness. He put the shirt and its matching bottom on, glad to see that it wasn’t a single sack like he thought.

         Maybe he was just getting sleepy.

        Now fully clothed, he glanced at the other bed he would sleep in tonight. By now, he knew that the storm probably stopped, and it was completely viable to flee back to the camp and sleep in his own cot. Unfortunately, he did have to admit that these were probably far more luxurious than what he was used to, since it was rare that he ever slept in an actual bed. (He hadn’t done it since he met the Shepherds, that was. When he traveled from village in two year’s time, it was spent either in inns or out in the woods. Sometimes someone’s chair.)

      In his restless dreams, he can still recall his parent’s deaths. The memories surrounding the last moment of his father were hazy now, one scene changing to another as the years passed, but always were their most clear in the end as his young self could only stare up in terror; and watching as the one person he didn’t think could ever fail in some way died before his mother could reach him after he ran to get her. But his mother’s death had been the most crystal clear, since instead of it occurring while he had still been a child, it instead happened while they were all fighting to travel to the past. She too wanted to help but...she would eventually join along with the rest of the original Shepherds. Owain told himself that if he had moved faster, or reacted quickly, these could’ve been prevented, and from that the wound never truly healed. And so the nightmares would continue.

      No, the pacing certainly isn’t working. Perhaps the soggy clothing didn’t either, though when it’s drenched along with his sweat now, well... He shed the outerwear, picking up the borrowed clothing to wear instead, and draping the rest over the back of a chair that he took a seat in. It’d be impossible to sleep again now, and at first Owain reached for where he typically kept his journal to write the time away but found he failed to bring it; it would have been a soggy mess anyway, and attempts at finding any loose scraps anywhere near ended up as a negative as well. Luckily Inigo didn’t appear to have woken up, and Owain paid a glance at the other’s form on the bed, since the myrmidon had worked on not making the nightmares so obvious (if that could be considered a positive thing). He didn’t want to just sit there with nothing to do however...

                          ❝ …Nope. I can’t take you seriously when                                        you don’t call me by some ridiculous                                        name.   ❞

      Now that things were mostly silent, he could finally feel the damage Owain had done. He’s had worse, but it still hurt.

      He had turned his head behind him, looking directly at the dark tome.  Of course, he wanted to break free and grab it, but the grip on his arm reminded him why he couldn’t.  The bit of anger inside of him boiled, eyes narrowing in frustration. All he could do was look forward and continue walking.

      “…Yes sir.”

      Of course, there were a set of things he could have done when forcing Morgan along; tied him up is the most obvious, but it wasn’t as if they each carried that on hand, or blinded him to prevent him knowing where they were located at but they were constantly on the move and it would hardly matter. Owain did his part...and now the rest would be left for everyone to decide.

In order to meet you… I might have been sailing against the endless waves of time.