Finally... Punching Africa!
Feb. 4th, 2013 01:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
revolution_is_a_riot posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
lesamisdodwWho: The Rescue Party (Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bossuet, and Jehan)
What: Embarking across the Atlantic to find their lost brethren
Summary: Plane rides, lions, supernatural encounters, and other African adventure shenanigans
Warnings: Language and Violence, very probable
General posting order will be determined by initial posts. (Intended as a loose guideline to prevent 5-person mayhem, and may change depending on who/how many are actively posting at a time.)
Status: Ongoing
Bahorel hummed absently to himself, lounging against a wall of the airport lobby. He checked his watch, ruffled through the stack of tickets in his hand, and tapped a foot against the backpack beside him. He was never very good at waiting.
Resisting the urge to wander around, he held his place impatiently, and waited for the others to arrive.
The pack at his feet was as small as he could manage, crammed with carefully planned supplies. It would be taken and stowed with the other baggage once they checked in, and he hadn't really brought anything in the way of carry-on luggage. Why burden himself more than he had to?
On the other hand, his lack of carry-on bags or frivolous objects meant that he was really, really not looking forward to this plane ride.
He hated planes.
Not because of the height, or the possibility of crashing and burning and death, but because they kept him trapped. Trapped in a tiny little excuse for a seat, crammed like a sardine next to other people (often strangers), with nothing to do. He hated being unable to move, to occupy himself with something physical.
Unless he was drunk, chatting with friends, or watching a movie, he was never one to sit still (and often didn't even during those activities). Plane rides were hell.
He desperately hoped he'd be able to just sleep through it. But he knew it was likely a lost cause. There was too much adrenaline pumping through his system already for sleep to be much of an option.
If only teleportation was real. Then he could just zap himself over there, and get started on the important stuff, without all the tedious waiting and sitting and stifling mind-numbing boredom in between.
He realized he was pacing, and made himself stop. The others would be here soon. It's not even that they were late, his impatience had driven him to arrive even earlier than they had planned. And once the others were here, he'd at least have conversation to occupy himself with, and maybe the plane would serve alcohol...
What: Embarking across the Atlantic to find their lost brethren
Summary: Plane rides, lions, supernatural encounters, and other African adventure shenanigans
Warnings: Language and Violence, very probable
General posting order will be determined by initial posts. (Intended as a loose guideline to prevent 5-person mayhem, and may change depending on who/how many are actively posting at a time.)
Status: Ongoing
Bahorel hummed absently to himself, lounging against a wall of the airport lobby. He checked his watch, ruffled through the stack of tickets in his hand, and tapped a foot against the backpack beside him. He was never very good at waiting.
Resisting the urge to wander around, he held his place impatiently, and waited for the others to arrive.
The pack at his feet was as small as he could manage, crammed with carefully planned supplies. It would be taken and stowed with the other baggage once they checked in, and he hadn't really brought anything in the way of carry-on luggage. Why burden himself more than he had to?
On the other hand, his lack of carry-on bags or frivolous objects meant that he was really, really not looking forward to this plane ride.
He hated planes.
Not because of the height, or the possibility of crashing and burning and death, but because they kept him trapped. Trapped in a tiny little excuse for a seat, crammed like a sardine next to other people (often strangers), with nothing to do. He hated being unable to move, to occupy himself with something physical.
Unless he was drunk, chatting with friends, or watching a movie, he was never one to sit still (and often didn't even during those activities). Plane rides were hell.
He desperately hoped he'd be able to just sleep through it. But he knew it was likely a lost cause. There was too much adrenaline pumping through his system already for sleep to be much of an option.
If only teleportation was real. Then he could just zap himself over there, and get started on the important stuff, without all the tedious waiting and sitting and stifling mind-numbing boredom in between.
He realized he was pacing, and made himself stop. The others would be here soon. It's not even that they were late, his impatience had driven him to arrive even earlier than they had planned. And once the others were here, he'd at least have conversation to occupy himself with, and maybe the plane would serve alcohol...
