REACTION SPEED - (Tripod! You should ask her what happened.)
SUGGESTION - (Not right away. That’s rude. But wait and listen, there may be a chance to gracefully turn the conversation in that direction.)
EMPATHY - (It was traumatic. That’s why she’s ready to have this talk now.)
VOLITION - (Speak kindly and with the grace of the Fog. She’s approaching you as a Priest.)
“Cool! Yeah I can talk about that.”
DRAMA - (Don’t act like such an unwashed ruffian! Give the lady a place to sit. All those steps on only three legs!)
“Oh uh, give me a second. I’ll make a chair…”
He scoops up one of the nicer (and larger) cushions from his nest pile and sets it on the mats he’s spread out. The cold stone floor is padded with faded rugs and soft blankets. It’s not dirty, he keeps things tidy. He really hates being dirty, actually. But the room is situated in an evolving state of chaos as he moves things to and from the Dyster home. Constantly tweaking and redecorating.
Trinkets line the shelves, shiny finds strung up so they shine like stars against the black walls. Then there’s the art. Harry writes and draws on any bit of paper he can find. The wall of opposite of the stars is lined in it. Sketches on cardboard from a cake mix box. Poetry on the backs of receipts. Dizzying patterns and slogans ready to be graffito'd and premiered to the Bavan public whether they want them or not.
Once he’s positioned the cushion and padded it with a blanket, he settles into his own nest.
no subject
SUGGESTION - (Not right away. That’s rude. But wait and listen, there may be a chance to gracefully turn the conversation in that direction.)
EMPATHY - (It was traumatic. That’s why she’s ready to have this talk now.)
VOLITION - (Speak kindly and with the grace of the Fog. She’s approaching you as a Priest.)
“Cool! Yeah I can talk about that.”
DRAMA - (Don’t act like such an unwashed ruffian! Give the lady a place to sit. All those steps on only three legs!)
“Oh uh, give me a second. I’ll make a chair…”
He scoops up one of the nicer (and larger) cushions from his nest pile and sets it on the mats he’s spread out. The cold stone floor is padded with faded rugs and soft blankets. It’s not dirty, he keeps things tidy. He really hates being dirty, actually. But the room is situated in an evolving state of chaos as he moves things to and from the Dyster home. Constantly tweaking and redecorating.
Trinkets line the shelves, shiny finds strung up so they shine like stars against the black walls. Then there’s the art. Harry writes and draws on any bit of paper he can find. The wall of opposite of the stars is lined in it. Sketches on cardboard from a cake mix box. Poetry on the backs of receipts. Dizzying patterns and slogans ready to be graffito'd and premiered to the Bavan public whether they want them or not.
Once he’s positioned the cushion and padded it with a blanket, he settles into his own nest.
“You don’t have to talk to Her the way I do.”