Is every thought you have quantifiably quaint, Daniel? [ comes the next accusation.
Now she's just being puerile — difficult for the sake of being difficult — but the mention of briars has inspired the vine towards brambles, the thorns shredding whatever bit of sunlight remains to little more than tatters. The magic's being impulsive — willful and uncooperative — and not entirely unlike an unruly pet that lashes out whenever it's not given the attention it wants. Four days have passed since Charlene last leeched someone dry and her energy's grown restless, her control spotty.
(It's like an addict trying to ween themselves clean, but the side effects are never pretty. They never tell you that part in the recruit meetings, but Charlene's anger makes her the exception rather than the rule. Anger, violence, self-loathing — these are things that consume and consume completely.)
A pause, then she collects herself — for varying definitions of the word 'collect'. ] I'll just show up next time, okay? None of this— [ The seams of the house creak. Charlene doesn't put a name to it. ] Just none of this.
[ His eyes flick up to the ceiling, tongue clicking against teeth. (Well, that's no good at all.)
The light that streams into the kitchen grows faint then dull then mottled. The briars are doing their job and, despite everything, Daniel feels an itch in the green of his hands. (There's nothing like an uncooperative garden for a grower to obsess over.) It's attraction, of a sort, though he never forgets that they're bound together because of Amyranth — the kind of hunger that takes until there's only husks.
He sips at his tea again (lukewarm, now; funny how quickly it can unravel). ] I have a few terrible ideas.
[ It's meant to sound light and dismissive and it is; Daniel does a good job of it, but in his mind and her magic and their space it twists in the air, a thin smoke that passes out and through the window. From there, it's anyone's guess. ] It is good to see you. [ As in: don't worry. You could do much worse. ] I'd mind less if you slept a little more. Properly.
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Now she's just being puerile — difficult for the sake of being difficult — but the mention of briars has inspired the vine towards brambles, the thorns shredding whatever bit of sunlight remains to little more than tatters. The magic's being impulsive — willful and uncooperative — and not entirely unlike an unruly pet that lashes out whenever it's not given the attention it wants. Four days have passed since Charlene last leeched someone dry and her energy's grown restless, her control spotty.
(It's like an addict trying to ween themselves clean, but the side effects are never pretty. They never tell you that part in the recruit meetings, but Charlene's anger makes her the exception rather than the rule. Anger, violence, self-loathing — these are things that consume and consume completely.)
A pause, then she collects herself — for varying definitions of the word 'collect'. ] I'll just show up next time, okay? None of this— [ The seams of the house creak. Charlene doesn't put a name to it. ] Just none of this.
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The light that streams into the kitchen grows faint then dull then mottled. The briars are doing their job and, despite everything, Daniel feels an itch in the green of his hands. (There's nothing like an uncooperative garden for a grower to obsess over.) It's attraction, of a sort, though he never forgets that they're bound together because of Amyranth — the kind of hunger that takes until there's only husks.
He sips at his tea again (lukewarm, now; funny how quickly it can unravel). ] I have a few terrible ideas.
[ It's meant to sound light and dismissive and it is; Daniel does a good job of it, but in his mind and her magic and their space it twists in the air, a thin smoke that passes out and through the window. From there, it's anyone's guess. ] It is good to see you. [ As in: don't worry. You could do much worse. ] I'd mind less if you slept a little more. Properly.