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.
[She takes the time that he's getting things together to really get a good look at the place. It's interesting stuff! Eclectic, she thinks. Some might even say... maximalist? But ultimately a very good visual representation of how she imagines the inner workings of Harry's mind to be. He always seems to have a lot on it, and... well. There's a lot in here. If she were a Nosier Nelly, she would gravitate to the places where the art is gathered and ask him all about it, but... she came here with a purpose.
Once he's put her little nest together, she hops over and settles in before ultimately deciding it'd probably be easier to have this conversation as a whole person. A pale mist surrounds her form, engulfing the animal completely before dissipating instantly in one big Poof! leaving behind the more familiar shape of the blonde young woman he's come to know.]
Thank you very much! Kinda reminds me of how I used t'sleep when I was a pooka. S'real comfortable.
[Seras chuckles, despite her wincing a little as she attempts to get her legs criss-crossed, trying her best to cover the missing portion by smoothing the skirt of her sundress over them. He may notice her right knee is still bandaged, likely to protect the nub, but there doesn't appear to be any blood seeping through. The healing is coming along, but not fast enough in her opinion. She doesn't make any reference to it, though; she's staying on task. She didn't drag herself up here for sympathy!]
Well, how do you talk to her? It sorta helps when I know how it's worked for others... I just... I don't really know where to start.
Harry nods as his eyes flicker over the bandage, accessing it quietly. That makes sense. When he tries something new and potentially scary he likes to talk it out first, if he can.
“I like to be up high, where I can really feel the wind in my feathers. That’s how I talked to my city, Revachol. She was in the wind, all around me. She reached the lowest gutters and tallest towers. The Fog is familiar to me, what She is…it can be upsetting for other people. But She feels like an old friend, to me.”
Nostalgia creeps into his gravely voice. It always does when he talks about Revachol. He’s stopped bracing himself for the reaction this would have got him back home. You're crazy. You're lying. (You piece of shit.) There is nothing left of Elysium here, but him. No one here understands that what he’s describing- communing with the World Spirit- is far beyond the purview of working class losers. That it belongs to the Innocences, the people who lead the world, who change it.
Acceptance can feel very lonely.
“So, the tower’s roof access is handy. I first spoke to her on the roof of an apartment building, actually. I thought she must've got me and Kim's monsters mixed up. Because he got troll. And I’m the guy who actually smashes stuff while Kim was…light and smart, like a bird.”
His smile twitches. Pain.
INLAND EMPIRE - (And he wanted to fly. Ever since he was a boy.)
VOLITION - (True, but entirely irrelevant to the conversation taking place. Don’t embarrass the Lieutenant's memory.)
“Uh, I made her a shrine too. In the deep woods, out of a tree. Sometimes I sit in it, or under it. And we talk.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.”
cw: description of lost limb
Once he's put her little nest together, she hops over and settles in before ultimately deciding it'd probably be easier to have this conversation as a whole person. A pale mist surrounds her form, engulfing the animal completely before dissipating instantly in one big Poof! leaving behind the more familiar shape of the blonde young woman he's come to know.]
Thank you very much! Kinda reminds me of how I used t'sleep when I was a pooka. S'real comfortable.
[Seras chuckles, despite her wincing a little as she attempts to get her legs criss-crossed, trying her best to cover the missing portion by smoothing the skirt of her sundress over them. He may notice her right knee is still bandaged, likely to protect the nub, but there doesn't appear to be any blood seeping through. The healing is coming along, but not fast enough in her opinion. She doesn't make any reference to it, though; she's staying on task. She didn't drag herself up here for sympathy!]
Well, how do you talk to her? It sorta helps when I know how it's worked for others... I just... I don't really know where to start.
no subject
“I like to be up high, where I can really feel the wind in my feathers. That’s how I talked to my city, Revachol. She was in the wind, all around me. She reached the lowest gutters and tallest towers. The Fog is familiar to me, what She is…it can be upsetting for other people. But She feels like an old friend, to me.”
Nostalgia creeps into his gravely voice. It always does when he talks about Revachol. He’s stopped bracing himself for the reaction this would have got him back home. You're crazy. You're lying. (You piece of shit.) There is nothing left of Elysium here, but him. No one here understands that what he’s describing- communing with the World Spirit- is far beyond the purview of working class losers. That it belongs to the Innocences, the people who lead the world, who change it.
Acceptance can feel very lonely.
“So, the tower’s roof access is handy. I first spoke to her on the roof of an apartment building, actually. I thought she must've got me and Kim's monsters mixed up. Because he got troll. And I’m the guy who actually smashes stuff while Kim was…light and smart, like a bird.”
His smile twitches. Pain.
INLAND EMPIRE - (And he wanted to fly. Ever since he was a boy.)
VOLITION - (True, but entirely irrelevant to the conversation taking place. Don’t embarrass the Lieutenant's memory.)
“Uh, I made her a shrine too. In the deep woods, out of a tree. Sometimes I sit in it, or under it. And we talk.”