Log in

No account? Create an account
Edgar Huntly
10 January 2009 @ 07:40 pm
Edgar had been chopping wood when the crackplot hit--he decides that he has been given the day off, stacks what he's done so far, and carries a decent armload inside to make himself a fire.

Now, she is curled up in a warm armchair by the fireplace, not-quite-dozing, just waiting this out. When he had been a panther, it had taken weeks for him to change back; (s)he hopes that this time the wait will be shorter. (She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror in the hall, and the image wasn't displeasing. She won't panic; she'll wait.)
Edgar Huntly
22 December 2008 @ 08:38 pm
Edgar has been sleeping poorly of late--he often wakes at noon to discover that he has undone all but one of the locks on his door, and that his things are not where he had left them in the evening. He seldom presents himself for meals, instead creeping into the kitchen afterward (as though he is ashamed) to take a plate of leftovers back to his room.

At times, he wraps himself in a heavy coat and walks through the forest, eyes on everything and nothing at once.

This morning, he is up unaccustomedly early so as to finish with the church furnishings before anyone else awakens. Dawn hasn't yet broken, but he reasons that he's only sanding; it doesn't require perfect light.
Edgar Huntly
25 October 2008 @ 08:57 pm
Edgar will be reading a book under a tree--David Harvey's Spaces of Hope, which is a good deal less hopeful than he had hoped--when the crackplot comes across him; he shivers a little at the sudden, autumnal breeze, and looks up. The Mansion's grounds roll out before him, lovely and clean and very definitely not his university. He stands at once, dusting off his trousers, trying to determine by looking whether this is a dream (but that's never worked before)--

Typist: Mainly for Alyosha.
Edgar Huntly
15 September 2008 @ 04:34 pm
The nineteenth was the first century of human sympathy,--the age when half wonderingly we began to descry in others that transfigured spark of divinity which we call Myself; when clodhoppers and peasants, and tramps and thieves, and millionaires and-sometimes-Negros, became throbbing souls whose warm pulsing life touched us so nearly that we half gasped with surprise, crying, "Thou too! Hast Thou see Sorrow and the dull waters of hopelessness? Hast Thou known Life?" And then all helplessly we peered into those Otherworlds, and wailed, "O World of Worlds how shall man make you one?"

-- W.E.B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk
Edgar Huntly
13 August 2008 @ 12:09 am
In the back yard, Edgar is planing wood carefully; sweat dampens his brow, and the shoulders of his shirt are soaked with sweat. Planing is a slow process, with what tools he could find, but his patience is producing neat, smooth boards. These will one day be pews for Alyosha's church--he smiles, to think of the young man who had spoken so ardently of his church.
Edgar Huntly
30 July 2008 @ 08:09 am
In a mansion occupied by thousands, it's all but impossible to find a single man when one lacks knowledge of his lodgings or habits or even his name. Edgar quickly realizes that he will not find Hagbard Celine in a systematic sweep of every room in every hall; there are just too many. Therefore, remembering that Hagbard had wanted the plothole outside (for whatever reason), he determines to canvass the grounds. He is walking the rim of the lake today, slowly, watching for a familiar face.
Edgar Huntly
15 June 2008 @ 09:51 pm
Edgar recently had a day of truly poor luck in hunting, and as a consequence, he has run out of ammunition for his fusil. The loss has made him recognize the prudence of conserving the firearms; therefore, he may be found outside, throwing his tomahawk at a block of heavy wood to retrain his aim. He has stripped down to his shirtsleeves and rolled his sleeves up, and he has clipped his hair and trimmed his beard to lessen the oppressive heat of mid-June.

He is not expecting company, but he would acknowledge politely anyone who came upon him.
Edgar Huntly
15 March 2008 @ 08:29 pm
Having learned substantially more about what rusalka are, Edgar is now in PANIC mode. He is tearing through the Mansion in search of Mrs. Watson, and he is trailing Gen Watanabe and Helen Rossi in his wake.
Edgar Huntly
11 March 2008 @ 11:21 pm
Two notices on the noticeboard, with varying degrees of accurate spelling rewritten by Gen:

If any here have information regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Alexander Misurov, please advise Mr. Edgar Huntly. He may be found in the main hall between the hours of noon and three.

and also, in much larger letters,

One bedframe, free, with mattress.

Beside the noticeboard is the bed that Edgar had been building for Zara; it has fine leaves carved into the headboard, and the splintery edges have been sanded, but the entire thing has a rough-hewn, unvarnished look. It also bears a legend proclaiming it to be free.

Edgar himself is stuffing feathers into the mattress. No good leaving a job only partway done. Feel free to point him toward Alexander Misurov, take his bed, or correct his spelling.
Edgar Huntly
27 February 2008 @ 09:56 pm
Edgar has been laboring over his Latin lately; when he takes his customary walks, he recites conjugations and declensions like a prayer, and he has devoted countless hours to the Ovid translation that was his Christmas present.

All in all, he finds himself growing rather sick of Latin, and so he is sitting now in the main room with a cloth over his lap, to catch the shavings as he whittles an owl from a chunk of maple wood. At times (more times than he would care to admit), his relentless intellect finds far more solace in simply doing than in thinking and learning.