Raut Daksoi
Dec 7th, 2003, 01:10:10 PM
-:: There is a hiss. A quiet thwap, and a hollow rustle follows. Three or four nearly inaudible brushes, and a click. A pat as his hat lands on the bed is next, and the blind man wonders what any onlooker would have just seen. He has to wonder, because sight is the one sense beyond his power. The day-to-day tasks of opening a door, walking throguh it without knocking one's garments against the frame, and turning on a light-switch would be unthinkably difficult to anyone without Raut's Force-sensitivity, the sense he has relied on since his blindness became. ::-
-:: He sees the room as objects and shapes; colour means nothing to him, and detail is nothing but a far-gone memory. He asseses the safety of his new living quarters, but finds them too cramped for his liking. He needs the outdoors, he craves the sounds and petty delights of nature. Anyone with sight would think it strange that the seven-foot behemoth could take so much joy from such simple pleasures, but they would also find his yellowing, gaunt face - now revealed thanks to the removed hat - disturbing. They would see the crude bandages he had made from scraps which covered his quickly decaying jaw, and they would most likely flee. His bald head and blank white eyes would only serve the illusion that Raut would sooner kill a man than speak in a civilised manner; although they would be half right. ::-
-:: After a few moments, he deems the room fit to be his home, and crosses it to the window. His long arm reaches up and slides the window roughly open; it catches several times through lack of use. After all, what Jedi would open a hatch this many floors up? He pokes his head from the window, and turns it first left, then right, smelling and hearing whatever there is to be smelt or heard. He 'looks' back inside with his mind's eye, and drops the long brown trenchcoat from his shoulders. Wearing only a pair of leather trousers around his legs and bandages around his shoulders and upper-arms, the long pony-tail which he has somehow managed to preserve through countless brawles and battles is on full show. It streams from behind him as he launches his lean body from the window, riding the air resistance until the first of the building-tops come close enough for him to reach. He curls and twists his body, shaping it so that he may change his course to the hundreds of possible climbing aids. First a weathered hand clings to a pole, he doesn't sense what its purpose is but it fits the one he has in mind. He swirls his body this way and that, catching on walls and launching from platforms. Finally he is at the ground, and he lands with the elegance of a falling leaf. His body bends to roll with impact, and he straightens, extending his spine and clicking out the nooks which had gathered on the journey to Coruscant. He senses people are around, but he cannot tell what they are thinking of him in the same way he cannot tell their facial expressions. He only cares that there is nature near; he can smell a close-by park. ::-
-:: He sees the room as objects and shapes; colour means nothing to him, and detail is nothing but a far-gone memory. He asseses the safety of his new living quarters, but finds them too cramped for his liking. He needs the outdoors, he craves the sounds and petty delights of nature. Anyone with sight would think it strange that the seven-foot behemoth could take so much joy from such simple pleasures, but they would also find his yellowing, gaunt face - now revealed thanks to the removed hat - disturbing. They would see the crude bandages he had made from scraps which covered his quickly decaying jaw, and they would most likely flee. His bald head and blank white eyes would only serve the illusion that Raut would sooner kill a man than speak in a civilised manner; although they would be half right. ::-
-:: After a few moments, he deems the room fit to be his home, and crosses it to the window. His long arm reaches up and slides the window roughly open; it catches several times through lack of use. After all, what Jedi would open a hatch this many floors up? He pokes his head from the window, and turns it first left, then right, smelling and hearing whatever there is to be smelt or heard. He 'looks' back inside with his mind's eye, and drops the long brown trenchcoat from his shoulders. Wearing only a pair of leather trousers around his legs and bandages around his shoulders and upper-arms, the long pony-tail which he has somehow managed to preserve through countless brawles and battles is on full show. It streams from behind him as he launches his lean body from the window, riding the air resistance until the first of the building-tops come close enough for him to reach. He curls and twists his body, shaping it so that he may change his course to the hundreds of possible climbing aids. First a weathered hand clings to a pole, he doesn't sense what its purpose is but it fits the one he has in mind. He swirls his body this way and that, catching on walls and launching from platforms. Finally he is at the ground, and he lands with the elegance of a falling leaf. His body bends to roll with impact, and he straightens, extending his spine and clicking out the nooks which had gathered on the journey to Coruscant. He senses people are around, but he cannot tell what they are thinking of him in the same way he cannot tell their facial expressions. He only cares that there is nature near; he can smell a close-by park. ::-