[The video feed is on portrait mode. Owen has the device angled in such a way that it looks unflattering from flared nostrils and age lines he doesn’t realize he has. But the expression on his face is cautious, a bead of sweat coming down from his brow. His breaths a much shorter for someone who is walking down an innocent Hedge Maze over in the Western District.]
Right then, let's talk about mazes. Personally speaking? Can’t stand them. What good are they other than to ultimately drive you bonkers?
But I suppose you can say: mazes are a metaphor for the grand journey that is-- [There is nothing audible coming from the background, but there is something (or someone) that makes him stop dead in his tracks.] ...life. Do you hear that?
II.) Action | Furman’s Bar Owen was out of his element, both mentally and metaphysically speaking. Even with the familiar clinks of glass pints and kitchenware tapping against various surfaces, it feels like there is a hefty weight at the pit of his stomach that makes him disoriented. The melting ice in his glass of whiskey is watering down his drink. This drink isn’t going to go down so easy.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he looked decent enough. He pulled in closer towards the collar of his lavender shirt to make sure he didn’t stink. For a moment, he had to tone down the visible down on his face because he smelled like a regular bloke with good hygiene. The utter normalcy of the moment is driving Owen mad.
Ultimately, he bites the bullet and takes a swig of his drink, and it’s finished in two or three gulps. He sets the whiskey glass on the edge of the bar. But before Owen realizes his error in judgment, it tips over and shatters all over the floor.
“Shit!” he mutters under his breath, bending down to retrieve the shattered pieces of glass.
Owen Harper | Torchwood
[The video feed is on portrait mode. Owen has the device angled in such a way that it looks unflattering from flared nostrils and age lines he doesn’t realize he has. But the expression on his face is cautious, a bead of sweat coming down from his brow. His breaths a much shorter for someone who is walking down an innocent Hedge Maze over in the Western District.]
Right then, let's talk about mazes. Personally speaking? Can’t stand them. What good are they other than to ultimately drive you bonkers?
But I suppose you can say: mazes are a metaphor for the grand journey that is--
[There is nothing audible coming from the background, but there is something (or someone) that makes him stop dead in his tracks.] ...life. Do you hear that?
II.) Action | Furman’s Bar
Owen was out of his element, both mentally and metaphysically speaking. Even with the familiar clinks of glass pints and kitchenware tapping against various surfaces, it feels like there is a hefty weight at the pit of his stomach that makes him disoriented. The melting ice in his glass of whiskey is watering down his drink. This drink isn’t going to go down so easy.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he looked decent enough. He pulled in closer towards the collar of his lavender shirt to make sure he didn’t stink. For a moment, he had to tone down the visible down on his face because he smelled like a regular bloke with good hygiene. The utter normalcy of the moment is driving Owen mad.
Ultimately, he bites the bullet and takes a swig of his drink, and it’s finished in two or three gulps. He sets the whiskey glass on the edge of the bar. But before Owen realizes his error in judgment, it tips over and shatters all over the floor.
“Shit!” he mutters under his breath, bending down to retrieve the shattered pieces of glass.