morally dubious dirt man 💔 weir dredger (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fossick) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2023-06-26 11:54 am
fossick) wrote in finalflight2023-06-26 11:54 am
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(( from here ))
[Ah, gods. That was not an invitation to fling advice his way, ma'am. He endures it all the same.]
Perhaps the people here weren't always so friendly. Time changes plenty, including prosperity. Demeanors change in parallel.
[That's his story and he's sticking to it.]
How empirical of you. You're overlooking one thing, however.
[Ah, gods. That was not an invitation to fling advice his way, ma'am. He endures it all the same.]
Perhaps the people here weren't always so friendly. Time changes plenty, including prosperity. Demeanors change in parallel.
[That's his story and he's sticking to it.]
How empirical of you. You're overlooking one thing, however.
Edited 2023-06-26 16:58 (UTC)
Kindness is transactional, even if only to appease one's own emotional state.
[And with this universal truth in mind, it is almost too surreal to have it flung in his direction with so many friendly faces, as though they look upon him like some creature he simply... isn't.
He just wants to be left alone. He doesn't want to-]
That I have no interest in pretending to smile and care about what they have to say. I do my work here, and I do it well. I even perform favors for this town now and again. But why must I waste hours in the day, listening to people prattle on about the same thing?
[It bores him to tears.]
[And with this universal truth in mind, it is almost too surreal to have it flung in his direction with so many friendly faces, as though they look upon him like some creature he simply... isn't.
He just wants to be left alone. He doesn't want to-]
That I have no interest in pretending to smile and care about what they have to say. I do my work here, and I do it well. I even perform favors for this town now and again. But why must I waste hours in the day, listening to people prattle on about the same thing?
[It bores him to tears.]
[See, that's the contradiction that's making the medium peer more closely at Weir than he may realize. He wants to be left alone but people here speak so well of a man who doesn't want their praise. He lives in this idyllic town but treats it with a hands-off indifference, uncertain of the overt and inherent beauty within.
The only conclusion she can draw?]
You're not used to kindness or a kind world.
The only conclusion she can draw?]
You're not used to kindness or a kind world.
[Semi-colon parentheses,,,]
Don't wait up.
[And, as expected, he leaves it at that. The sun will be down before he returns, easing his way up the hill to his home, nestled close to the town's windmill, which creaks as its blade spin, lazily. Will he find her there on the path?]
Don't wait up.
[And, as expected, he leaves it at that. The sun will be down before he returns, easing his way up the hill to his home, nestled close to the town's windmill, which creaks as its blade spin, lazily. Will he find her there on the path?]
[Lucinda Huyen Tran has been compared to the ghosts she sees and speaks to. When she was found, she slept in the grass on her back, eyes closed, hands resting across her torso, and imperceptibly breathing.
Like a beautiful corpse.
She's not exactly pale per se (her complexion is healthy enough), but the way she carries herself and her dark eyes with a hint of exhaustion and with little hue puts very few people at ease at first glance. And with her heavily decorated body, Lucinda is more like a painting of a haunted beauty that stepped out of its frame and is at odds with whatever new scenery she wanders into.
A breeze passes through her ink-black hair as she strolls along the path to meet Weir halfway, carrying the scent of flowers with it. She wears a practical and dark long-sleeved dress (though hilariously, she insisted on the collar area being low and open. Flora likes to be seen, she insisted with a smile although it's hard to tell if she was being serious or not at the time.)
From afar she waves at Weir, smiling placidly.]
Welcome home.
Like a beautiful corpse.
She's not exactly pale per se (her complexion is healthy enough), but the way she carries herself and her dark eyes with a hint of exhaustion and with little hue puts very few people at ease at first glance. And with her heavily decorated body, Lucinda is more like a painting of a haunted beauty that stepped out of its frame and is at odds with whatever new scenery she wanders into.
A breeze passes through her ink-black hair as she strolls along the path to meet Weir halfway, carrying the scent of flowers with it. She wears a practical and dark long-sleeved dress (though hilariously, she insisted on the collar area being low and open. Flora likes to be seen, she insisted with a smile although it's hard to tell if she was being serious or not at the time.)
From afar she waves at Weir, smiling placidly.]
Welcome home.
[She's a sight, that's for certain. For good or ill, Lucinda appears at odds with the rest of the town, a place that seems so idyllic that even the slightest darkened demeanor feels as though it doesn't belong — like a scrap of cloth hewn into the wrong tapestry, the fabric misaligned. Weir is the same way, though perhaps even more so. Bafflingly, the town takes to him. And bafflingly—though maybe not as much, since she is kinder at her core—the townspeople of Turner’s Vale take to her, too. They ask about the flowers inked on her skin. Remark on the beauty of her raven-black hair. Wonder at her story, and how she arrived here, and how she knows the huntsman so well enough that she might take up space in his abode. Scandalous? Well, maybe minds don’t work quite that way in this town anymore, but it is enough to make imaginations run wild.
Though those imaginations would be put to rest if they saw how the man interacted with her, not so much a smile as he meets her halfway up the path, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. A hunting knife hangs in its sheath, latched onto his belt on one hip; another with an ebony hilt, of similar size, resting on the opposite side.
“Welcome home,” she says, and to hear that is so foreign that he doesn’t know what to do with it, instead glancing up at her as he wends up, up the hill that eventually leads to his front door. Weir makes a low noise of affirmation, adjusting his satchel.]
Have you eaten supper yet?
[If he looks like he’s been foraging about beyond the entrance of the northern woods, where he would have met her if she wasn’t late, then yes. He has been. His cheekbones are tinged slightly from the cool breeze, gradually picking up its intensity as the evening drags on.]
Though those imaginations would be put to rest if they saw how the man interacted with her, not so much a smile as he meets her halfway up the path, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. A hunting knife hangs in its sheath, latched onto his belt on one hip; another with an ebony hilt, of similar size, resting on the opposite side.
“Welcome home,” she says, and to hear that is so foreign that he doesn’t know what to do with it, instead glancing up at her as he wends up, up the hill that eventually leads to his front door. Weir makes a low noise of affirmation, adjusting his satchel.]
Have you eaten supper yet?
[If he looks like he’s been foraging about beyond the entrance of the northern woods, where he would have met her if she wasn’t late, then yes. He has been. His cheekbones are tinged slightly from the cool breeze, gradually picking up its intensity as the evening drags on.]
Supper? Not yet. [She brushes her hair behind one ear.]
I decided to wait for you instead.
[Lucinda finds herself liking Turner's Vale. The people are kind and friendly towards her despite being an outsider. She finds herself smiling back at them and engaging in polite conversation to answer their curiosity. The flowers on her skin? She casually mentions a "skin artisan" who painted on her when she came of age. An unpopular choice even back home but she wanted to express her womanhood. Compliments to her black hair, she accepts gracefully, humbly saying people from her village also sport dark hair (not a lie).
Her story? She was traveling with a merchant who promised her passage to the capital but then scammed her out of her meager coin and belongings and left her on her own. How fortunate that the huntsmen found her before the forest animals did. How kind he was to take her in and put a roof over her head and give her time and space to figure out her next steps.
Okay, maybe she embellished that last part. Weir wasn't kind.
But inexplicably, there was some small relief in his bluntness. Espers have a gruff appreciation for that quality. And somehow they've struck some sort of peace between them especially after she was forthright about her origins and capabilities. She meant no harm to him or the Vale. Lucinda would just linger and hover until there was a way back to sunny California.
But first, supper. She turns herself halfway but waits for him to walk first so she can follow alongside or behind him.]
I did take the opportunity to prep a few things. So when we're inside, it's all ready to go. I even went to buy some bread.
[The medium looks away from him and casts a dreamy gaze at the evening sky.]
Food tastes better with company.
I decided to wait for you instead.
[Lucinda finds herself liking Turner's Vale. The people are kind and friendly towards her despite being an outsider. She finds herself smiling back at them and engaging in polite conversation to answer their curiosity. The flowers on her skin? She casually mentions a "skin artisan" who painted on her when she came of age. An unpopular choice even back home but she wanted to express her womanhood. Compliments to her black hair, she accepts gracefully, humbly saying people from her village also sport dark hair (not a lie).
Her story? She was traveling with a merchant who promised her passage to the capital but then scammed her out of her meager coin and belongings and left her on her own. How fortunate that the huntsmen found her before the forest animals did. How kind he was to take her in and put a roof over her head and give her time and space to figure out her next steps.
Okay, maybe she embellished that last part. Weir wasn't kind.
But inexplicably, there was some small relief in his bluntness. Espers have a gruff appreciation for that quality. And somehow they've struck some sort of peace between them especially after she was forthright about her origins and capabilities. She meant no harm to him or the Vale. Lucinda would just linger and hover until there was a way back to sunny California.
But first, supper. She turns herself halfway but waits for him to walk first so she can follow alongside or behind him.]
I did take the opportunity to prep a few things. So when we're inside, it's all ready to go. I even went to buy some bread.
[The medium looks away from him and casts a dreamy gaze at the evening sky.]
Food tastes better with company.
[She took the opportunity to prep things? He stares at her for a moment, then brushes past up the path, clearly expecting her to follow.]
Taking it upon yourself to ready a meal? Supposing I have no reason to complain, seeing as how I've been telling you to pull your weight.
[But still a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, knowing that someone who is still mostly a stranger to him, tromping about his home, fussing with his things -- even if it's for something as mutually beneficial as prepping a meal.]
Come on. It's cold tonight.
[It'll be better if they hunker down indoors, where he can at least get a flame blazing in the hearth.
His lodge meets them at the top of the hill, large and crafted from dark wood, with a slanted rooftop. It's perhaps a bit too large for one person, yet far from overly ostentatious. There's still a practicality that exudes from the building itself, as though this home belongs to a man who does not seek to display himself as anything more than he is.
He leads them in through the front door. The interior greets them, and the first thing he does is move over to his desk, placing his bag down.]
What did you throw together? [Food-wise. She'd be a bit spoiled for choice if she really trawled through the market during the daylight hours; trade has been booming, and merchants bring back all manner of things from the city and beyond; produce, spices, and "exotic" dried or preserved meats and fish, even though Weir sees no issue with the venison garnered from the forests nearby.
Hopefully she didn't blow through all of his coin.] And how "ready" is it?
[does he still need to throw it all into a pot-]
Taking it upon yourself to ready a meal? Supposing I have no reason to complain, seeing as how I've been telling you to pull your weight.
[But still a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, knowing that someone who is still mostly a stranger to him, tromping about his home, fussing with his things -- even if it's for something as mutually beneficial as prepping a meal.]
Come on. It's cold tonight.
[It'll be better if they hunker down indoors, where he can at least get a flame blazing in the hearth.
His lodge meets them at the top of the hill, large and crafted from dark wood, with a slanted rooftop. It's perhaps a bit too large for one person, yet far from overly ostentatious. There's still a practicality that exudes from the building itself, as though this home belongs to a man who does not seek to display himself as anything more than he is.
He leads them in through the front door. The interior greets them, and the first thing he does is move over to his desk, placing his bag down.]
What did you throw together? [Food-wise. She'd be a bit spoiled for choice if she really trawled through the market during the daylight hours; trade has been booming, and merchants bring back all manner of things from the city and beyond; produce, spices, and "exotic" dried or preserved meats and fish, even though Weir sees no issue with the venison garnered from the forests nearby.
Hopefully she didn't blow through all of his coin.] And how "ready" is it?
[does he still need to throw it all into a pot-]
Edited 2023-06-27 16:45 (UTC)
I may prefer to sleep in but in my waking hours, I'm more than productive.
[She's been mostly nonplussed by Weir's general attitude from the beginning. In fact, Lucy doesn't really blame him for acting the way he does around her, an anomaly from another world inhabited by three spirits. It's the way he is around other people in Turner's Vale that amuses her.
The medium follows Weir from behind, humming some song under her breath all the while. When they enter the lodge, Lucinda doesn't linger and takes out a hair tie from her pocket to gather her hair behind her head.]
Vegetables have been cleaned and cut and there's still some preserved meat leftover so I have several slices of that ready as well.
If you start up the fire, I would like to do something with the eggs.
[It may or may not be surprising how, for a lack of a better word, domestic she is. When Lucinda isn't hunting rogue espers or witches, doing damage control, or negotiating with the Collective's clients, she's a surrogate big sister to her friend's younger cousins or assisting in her adoptive parent's restaurant.
And the kitchen may not be modern but it reminds her of her original home in Vietnam. They had a humble kitchen space at the beginning at least, more firewood and charcoal, less propane gas and electricity.]
I hope you haven't minded my cooking. I don't believe in overspending especially since food preservation isn't the same here as it is where I'm from.
[She's been mostly nonplussed by Weir's general attitude from the beginning. In fact, Lucy doesn't really blame him for acting the way he does around her, an anomaly from another world inhabited by three spirits. It's the way he is around other people in Turner's Vale that amuses her.
The medium follows Weir from behind, humming some song under her breath all the while. When they enter the lodge, Lucinda doesn't linger and takes out a hair tie from her pocket to gather her hair behind her head.]
Vegetables have been cleaned and cut and there's still some preserved meat leftover so I have several slices of that ready as well.
If you start up the fire, I would like to do something with the eggs.
[It may or may not be surprising how, for a lack of a better word, domestic she is. When Lucinda isn't hunting rogue espers or witches, doing damage control, or negotiating with the Collective's clients, she's a surrogate big sister to her friend's younger cousins or assisting in her adoptive parent's restaurant.
And the kitchen may not be modern but it reminds her of her original home in Vietnam. They had a humble kitchen space at the beginning at least, more firewood and charcoal, less propane gas and electricity.]
I hope you haven't minded my cooking. I don't believe in overspending especially since food preservation isn't the same here as it is where I'm from.
[Oh, yes. This is definitely a more firewood-and-coal set-up, the stove far more medieval than anything she might be used to seeing. But simple is fine — Weir does not fancy himself a cook more than he knows what goes together and what does not.]
Your cooking is fine.
[“Fine”, he says, which is perhaps the biggest compliment she will pry out of him right now. He eases himself over to the kitchen hearth and stove, bending down to reach out and light a fire. Embers fly out from his fingertips and gather in the coals.
Honestly, he just wanted to throw everything into a stew pot, the one hanging over a larger hearth, but whatever. If she wants to put in the work, he’ll not stop her. It’s not like she can poison him.]
Your home is rationing food? Is that what you mean?
[Not realizing she means the literal process of preservation. Meanwhile, as they chat, he’s going to cross back into the main area of the lodge, to light the central fire in the hearth.]
Your cooking is fine.
[“Fine”, he says, which is perhaps the biggest compliment she will pry out of him right now. He eases himself over to the kitchen hearth and stove, bending down to reach out and light a fire. Embers fly out from his fingertips and gather in the coals.
Honestly, he just wanted to throw everything into a stew pot, the one hanging over a larger hearth, but whatever. If she wants to put in the work, he’ll not stop her. It’s not like she can poison him.]
Your home is rationing food? Is that what you mean?
[Not realizing she means the literal process of preservation. Meanwhile, as they chat, he’s going to cross back into the main area of the lodge, to light the central fire in the hearth.]
Edited (clarification) 2023-06-27 17:48 (UTC)
Let's see... How to explain it best?
[She has a small cauldron of water ready (for poached eggs) and a metal grate to grill the vegetables and bread. Lucinda hauls it over to the hearth so that it can get heated up.]
We have large cold boxes. [You can just call it by its real name Lucy... But she has a habit of being roundabout sometimes.]
So in our household, when we can afford to, we buy larger amounts of food. Raw meat, raw fish, and fresh vegetables keep for much longer though you don't want to forget about what lies within. Everything eventually rots after all, no matter how long you try to avoid it.
[Lucy says that part so cheerfully...
She hangs the pot of water over the fire and slides the grate beneath it.]
But yes, cold boxes. Very useful. It's seen as excessive but we have two in our house. That's why, I'm trying to be conscientious here. If I bought too much, there isn't a reliable way to preserve the food and it would go to waste.
[She has a small cauldron of water ready (for poached eggs) and a metal grate to grill the vegetables and bread. Lucinda hauls it over to the hearth so that it can get heated up.]
We have large cold boxes. [You can just call it by its real name Lucy... But she has a habit of being roundabout sometimes.]
So in our household, when we can afford to, we buy larger amounts of food. Raw meat, raw fish, and fresh vegetables keep for much longer though you don't want to forget about what lies within. Everything eventually rots after all, no matter how long you try to avoid it.
[Lucy says that part so cheerfully...
She hangs the pot of water over the fire and slides the grate beneath it.]
But yes, cold boxes. Very useful. It's seen as excessive but we have two in our house. That's why, I'm trying to be conscientious here. If I bought too much, there isn't a reliable way to preserve the food and it would go to waste.
Edited 2023-06-27 18:21 (UTC)
[Large... cold boxes. He looks over his shoulder from where he's crouched and towards the kitchen, his eyebrows are hiking up.]
You have boxes filled with ice. You can say as much. You might think me primitive, but I understand the concept of the cold keeping food fresh for longer.
[He's a hunter! Of course he does!
(But rather, no. Her general way of explaining the concept of a "cold box" does him no favors, because literally. He's just imagining a box that is kept brimming with ice or something.)]
Your world, what did you call it? Kali...?
[California.]
You have boxes filled with ice. You can say as much. You might think me primitive, but I understand the concept of the cold keeping food fresh for longer.
[He's a hunter! Of course he does!
(But rather, no. Her general way of explaining the concept of a "cold box" does him no favors, because literally. He's just imagining a box that is kept brimming with ice or something.)]
Your world, what did you call it? Kali...?
[California.]
Edited 2023-06-27 18:35 (UTC)
[Against all odds, Lucinda suppresses the desire to laugh or show that she's even tickled by Weir's misconception of her explanation. But you know what, he's got the idea, she'll let him run with it.]
Oh, I don't think of you or any of this as primitive. I lived in similar conditions as a child.
[At least until her parents indulged in the money she brought in to create a bigger house, a bigger kitchen, and to hire a maid to cook and clean all their meals.
Funny. She doesn't really remember if the food the maid cooked tasted good.
Her dark eyes are set on the cauldron of water, waiting for it to come to a boil. Several eggs sit in the basket next to her, as well as the other ingredients for when everything is properly hot. She continues their conversation easily.]
California.
[No she also won't explain that California is only part of the world, who needs that explanation? Boring!]
I specifically live in the southern region, close to the coast. I don't know if you'd like it but there's plenty of sunlight. We don't have snow during the winter. Only in the mountains.
Oh, I don't think of you or any of this as primitive. I lived in similar conditions as a child.
[At least until her parents indulged in the money she brought in to create a bigger house, a bigger kitchen, and to hire a maid to cook and clean all their meals.
Funny. She doesn't really remember if the food the maid cooked tasted good.
Her dark eyes are set on the cauldron of water, waiting for it to come to a boil. Several eggs sit in the basket next to her, as well as the other ingredients for when everything is properly hot. She continues their conversation easily.]
California.
[No she also won't explain that California is only part of the world, who needs that explanation? Boring!]
I specifically live in the southern region, close to the coast. I don't know if you'd like it but there's plenty of sunlight. We don't have snow during the winter. Only in the mountains.
[Lucy, who hails from the Planet of California.
He'd say that there are places like that here, and not too terribly far south of the Vale, should anyone here get it into their heads to leave town. (No one really does, except on short business trips to indulge in trade, and they're often back as swiftly as they had departed. No one truly wishes to leave this town, flourishing and colorful. But still prone to changing seasons, and yes, snow in the wintertime.)
But he doesn't catch the tail-end of her explanation. Or rather, he doesn't hear it. In his head, a murmur, a wash of static, a voice. It piques, it rumbles, it sluices through every fold of his brain. Only Weir hears it.]
[He squeezes his eyes shut, murmurs-]
Ah, fuck... Shut up, not now.
He'd say that there are places like that here, and not too terribly far south of the Vale, should anyone here get it into their heads to leave town. (No one really does, except on short business trips to indulge in trade, and they're often back as swiftly as they had departed. No one truly wishes to leave this town, flourishing and colorful. But still prone to changing seasons, and yes, snow in the wintertime.)
But he doesn't catch the tail-end of her explanation. Or rather, he doesn't hear it. In his head, a murmur, a wash of static, a voice. It piques, it rumbles, it sluices through every fold of his brain. Only Weir hears it.]
Cₐₗᵢfₒᵣₙᵢₐ! Yes, we've heard that name before, haven't we? Somewhere, where...? Between veils, between worlds, between dimensions, just passing through, really. ǟֆӄ ɦɛʀ ǟɮօʊȶ ƈǟʟɨʄօʀռɨǟ, RIVER-CHILD.
[He squeezes his eyes shut, murmurs-]
Ah, fuck... Shut up, not now.
[Welcome to the Planet California...
Before she can continue to muse over the cauldron, his murmuring catches her attention. Lucy turns to look at him dark eyes narrowed. But she doesn't chastise or make an attempt at talking back because her gaze is more assessing than it is offended.
And because of her experience with other espers, especially those who could invade your mind or connect with it, she's more informed of when things are not what they seem.
So silent she remains (Flora and Fang stir under her skin, Feather is indifferent) until she lightly remarks.]
Migraine?
Before she can continue to muse over the cauldron, his murmuring catches her attention. Lucy turns to look at him dark eyes narrowed. But she doesn't chastise or make an attempt at talking back because her gaze is more assessing than it is offended.
And because of her experience with other espers, especially those who could invade your mind or connect with it, she's more informed of when things are not what they seem.
So silent she remains (Flora and Fang stir under her skin, Feather is indifferent) until she lightly remarks.]
Migraine?
[He hisses air out between his teeth when he hears her question, raising a hand to waggle it dismissively.]
A right terrible headache.
[The voice in his head rumbles out a laugh, dissonant behind his eyes.]
So, you said you were going to tell me about-
-why espers can't be alone.
[Weir is in a tough spot; he cannot reply to the thing resounding in his head without giving himself away, so he must endure it, putting on a farce with his houseguest. Well. Nothing he doesn't deal with everyday.
The fire's blazing now, and he stands to look at her, questioningly.]
A right terrible headache.
[The voice in his head rumbles out a laugh, dissonant behind his eyes.]
River-child thinks he's funny. We are not the headache! You are, difficult boy. Not much fun ṅöẅ ẗḧäẗ ḧë'ṡ ġöẗẗëṅ ẅḧäẗ ḧë'ṡ ẄÄṄṪЁḊ. We want to talk to HER, ask her more about-
So, you said you were going to tell me about-
̷C̷a̷̷l̷̷i̷̷f̷̷o̷̷r̷̷n̷̷i̷a̷!
-why espers can't be alone.
No. Not that! Aren't you listening? ͯWe ͯaͯͯlͯͯrͯͯeͯͯaͯͯdͯͯyͯ ͯkͯͯnͯͯoͯͯwͯ ͯaͯͯboͯͯuͯͯtͯ ͯtͯͯhͯͯeͯ ͯmͯͯiͯͯnͯͯdͯ, ͯwe ͯwͯͯaͯͯnͯͯtͯ ͯtͯͯoͯ learn about California!
[Weir is in a tough spot; he cannot reply to the thing resounding in his head without giving himself away, so he must endure it, putting on a farce with his houseguest. Well. Nothing he doesn't deal with everyday.
The fire's blazing now, and he stands to look at her, questioningly.]
Edited 2023-06-27 23:33 (UTC)
Ah. Yes. I did present that as a topic of conversation, didn't I?
[As much as she would love poached eggs, seeing as how Weir is having difficulties... Boiled eggs it is. It's fine, her internal timer is consistent with cooking, not sleep. The eggs are dropped in before she turns her gaze back to them.
Better to pretend she does not suspect much.]
Espers... Tend to be troublesome when dealing with their burgeoning abilities by themselves. It's been said before that depending on how powerful one is, you're born with a crushing weight.
[She had a particularly heavy load.]
[As much as she would love poached eggs, seeing as how Weir is having difficulties... Boiled eggs it is. It's fine, her internal timer is consistent with cooking, not sleep. The eggs are dropped in before she turns her gaze back to them.
Better to pretend she does not suspect much.]
Espers... Tend to be troublesome when dealing with their burgeoning abilities by themselves. It's been said before that depending on how powerful one is, you're born with a crushing weight.
[She had a particularly heavy load.]
Weir, tell me.
[Her tied-up hair drapes across her shoulder as she looks at him again.]
Though I don't think you have the mindset for it, think of a person who has lost a loved one. A parent, a child, a friend, or a lover... Someone whose loss could profoundly break them.
[The metal grate is hot enough now and she takes the basket of vegetables and sets several slices of squash, brushed with oil, salt, and pepper.]
One day, they learn about someone else who can see and speak to their shadows. Hear their voices. Learn that they are not truly gone. How much do you think that pathetic, broken individual would give for some kind of closure? Words of validation?
[Her tied-up hair drapes across her shoulder as she looks at him again.]
Though I don't think you have the mindset for it, think of a person who has lost a loved one. A parent, a child, a friend, or a lover... Someone whose loss could profoundly break them.
[The metal grate is hot enough now and she takes the basket of vegetables and sets several slices of squash, brushed with oil, salt, and pepper.]
One day, they learn about someone else who can see and speak to their shadows. Hear their voices. Learn that they are not truly gone. How much do you think that pathetic, broken individual would give for some kind of closure? Words of validation?
[The voice in his head recedes like rumbling, static background noise, the same way the tide recedes from a sandy shore. Vacillating, listening through Weir's ears, seeing through his eyes. At least the hunter's thoughts remain his own.
Loss. Grief. The desperate need for closure in the wake of all these things. She's right, he doesn't have the mindset-- No, the experience to see these as little more than a function that sometimes buoys itself up in a person's life, a reaction to an emotional pillar summarily, and permanently, lost.]
Should they really find themselves that "broken"? I would imagine anything at all.
Loss. Grief. The desperate need for closure in the wake of all these things. She's right, he doesn't have the mindset-- No, the experience to see these as little more than a function that sometimes buoys itself up in a person's life, a reaction to an emotional pillar summarily, and permanently, lost.]
Should they really find themselves that "broken"? I would imagine anything at all.
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