[closed]

[heirring]

WHO: Flint, Bartimaeus, Wysteria, Fitcher & misc. guests
WHAT: Misc. socializing.
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: Kirkwall, etc.
NOTES: Catch all for closed starters. If you want something, hit my up by PM/discord/plurk/whatever and we can make it happen.

Comments

[reshapes]

That glinting light pulses hotter in answer to her, the sludge about it recoiling briefly from the implicit tug of it.

From somewhere in the mess of it, something burbles weakly: "Excuse you." The inky substance sluggishly begins to reform - shedding as oil from water and leaving behind a series of jet colored feathers. "Keep those grubby hands to yourself."

[rathercommon]

What -

Kitty jumps back, eyes wide. That's a voice she knows. "Bartimaeus?" But -

Again, she moves forward, this time less cautiously. "What on earth happened to you? Are you all right? Why do you look like that? What's going on? Are you in trouble?" She doesn't touch him, but her hands hover, uncertain, as if about to disobey his command.

[reshapes]

"Always the questions with you," the rippling mass of feathers rasps. The sickly green glow at the heart of it snaps and pops, a pulse that sends the the feathers bristling and the viscous oil substance binding them together scattering in strange directions like the repelled side of a magnetic.

"Don't you ever get tired,"--says the boy's face as it emerges from the shroud of feathers; he is lying flat on his back, the rest of his guise remains yet an irregular crawling shape, a gently drifting sheet draped over the suggestion of a form--"Of asking them?"

The boy's face seems quite pale among the inky feathers. But let's be honest - it's not as if that means anything whatsoever.

[rathercommon]

"Ugh," she proclaims in return.

But her resolve breaks. She reaches down, then, looking for his wrist. It's a stupid move for a number of reasons - first, it's not like he's going to have a pulse, and second, her hand isn't going to be doing him any favors, not with her resilience. But she's desperate to do something, and sitting and waiting for him to recover isn't going to cut it.

"What can I get you? Tea? Or - "

[reshapes]

"Someone to eat might be nice," croaks the face wistfully from within the black mass while she plunks her hand into the fluttering shape where the boy's wrist should be. It's a bit like reaching into a jar of whispering beetle wings, the skittering shapes repulsed by the contact; the carpet at the bottom of it is damp and squishing.