Who: Fever, Helena, and those threading with them What:January non-event things. When: All month. Where: Across the isle. Warning(s): To be noted in threads individually
"The soil is underfoot, and you're no delicate thing. You'll dig your roots in, and find your footing... unless you want a gardener's help, that is. From what I understand, you've already started testing the earth. Tasting it. Tastes like dirt, I imagine."
"I'm trying, because the other option is withering. Drying up from the lack of nutrients."
Planting things with Cèsar taught her that much, at least. Offloading the box, she comes to another, prying it open to look at the contents. A large cloud of smoke rises out, and keeps coming, coming, heavy and choking, making her cough through it as she tries to seal it back up.
Troublesome thing. Leave it alone, it'll fill every space.
As she struggles with the cloud, the Dreams box murmurs to him. Winds on the steppe, the drip of water in isolation, profound silence that eats everything, feet on the staircase going down. Gunfire, the cries of a battle. If there is kindness, something softer in this box, it isn't audible over the keening. Her dreams have always been an uneasy place.
But, wait a moment. Wait, and things clear, to hold the sound of a guitar. Of people laughing all together, the popping of logs in a campfire, the faint screeching of her wyvern. Dreams, mixed and assorted.
Fever finally wrangles the cloud down, closing the box and tossing it away from her in a huff. Junk pile, that one.
"That one needs to be sorted, but it'll make an even bigger mess."
something something the author is depressed and this is a mood
"Sort of the nature of things, isn't it? You can't proper take the feelings out of the box sometimes unless you rip them out crying and screaming. Then you feel a pleasant sort of tidiness, once your head is pounding and your cheeks are raw and you know you've made a scene. Much better an idea than keeping that box shuttered forcibly until everything inside of it rots."
It was what made the soil so rich to begin with. Things broken down, changed, left as fuel and nutrients, where madness might find purchase and drink deep. Earth in her throat, her mouth.
Sitting down on the floor, crosslegged, the box in her lap. Reaching for one of her knives - it's the Figment Blade that answers this time, and she brings down the edge to try and cut through the seal that secures this box. No dice - the weapon's temperamental as it is, and today is a day where it wants to be nothing more than a beautiful paperweight. No cutting edge.
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Planting things with Cèsar taught her that much, at least. Offloading the box, she comes to another, prying it open to look at the contents. A large cloud of smoke rises out, and keeps coming, coming, heavy and choking, making her cough through it as she tries to seal it back up.
Troublesome thing. Leave it alone, it'll fill every space.
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He picks up a box marked Dreams and puts an ear to it, curious.
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But, wait a moment. Wait, and things clear, to hold the sound of a guitar. Of people laughing all together, the popping of logs in a campfire, the faint screeching of her wyvern. Dreams, mixed and assorted.
Fever finally wrangles the cloud down, closing the box and tossing it away from her in a huff. Junk pile, that one.
"That one needs to be sorted, but it'll make an even bigger mess."
something something the author is depressed and this is a mood
no subject
It was what made the soil so rich to begin with. Things broken down, changed, left as fuel and nutrients, where madness might find purchase and drink deep. Earth in her throat, her mouth.
Sitting down on the floor, crosslegged, the box in her lap. Reaching for one of her knives - it's the Figment Blade that answers this time, and she brings down the edge to try and cut through the seal that secures this box. No dice - the weapon's temperamental as it is, and today is a day where it wants to be nothing more than a beautiful paperweight. No cutting edge.
Fine then, if it wanted to be like that.
"What if I blow this one up?"