WHO: Miriam & Vanya; Miriam & Joselyn WHAT: Workin' 9 to 5 WHEN: Now WHERE: Somewhere in the Free Marches; The Crossroads NOTES: catch-all; starters in comments. will note cw's in subject lines if necessary.
"Imagine you're trudging through a swamp and they're the flies."
Is a horizon-flat kind of good cheer, a practiced deadpan punctuated by a certain widening eyed look. A practiced sort of humor designed to be inoffensively throwaway, so bland and habitual that it barely constitutes as a joke.
“Maybe they like my perfume,” she mimics, maturely, instead of literally anything she might say about a swamp. As if she wouldn't probably prefer a swamp, overall, because most of what she could take home from it would be a little more familiar than the insubstantial qualities of everything in the crossroads.
Two of the spirits are holding hands. Swinging hands, specifically. Joselyn pokes the end of her staff between them, and they reform either side of it, upright but vague figures with their hands on their hips.
From up on her lookout ledge, Miriam sticks her tongue back at her. Like an adult. Naughty spirits aside, they're alone and unobserved which makes it acceptable for severe battlemages with bluntly chopped bangs to debase themselves so—
It's a fine vantage point from which to watch as the figures to either side of Joselyn's staff warp, the arm of one coming away from its hip and stretching out. Stretching around, unnaturally long, and at last looping back around behind Joselyn to grip the crooked arm of its partner. The shape is unpleasant, unnatural.
With a tsk from behind her teeth, Miriam tucks her staff up high across her shoulder and begins to pick her way down.
“They're damned determined,” Joselyn observes, and her displeasure is more bemusement in truth than anything else; strange, alien things. As they seem to have become strange, if not alien, to each other —
It feels a little like the chasm she had been afraid of yawning wide between them as girls, watching Miriam be taken away. Then, she had known immediately what must be done about it and she had resolved to do it at once; now, her feelings are not half so clear as the tolling bell to guide her then, and neither the way forward.
Maybe it would be easier if the unfamiliarity was more pronounced, instead of this half-step, this key change.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
:format(jpeg):mode_rgb():quality(90)/discogs-images/R-1925375-1419421956-4838.jpeg.jpg)
no subject
Is a horizon-flat kind of good cheer, a practiced deadpan punctuated by a certain widening eyed look. A practiced sort of humor designed to be inoffensively throwaway, so bland and habitual that it barely constitutes as a joke.
"Maybe they like your perfume."
Now there's the real punchline.
no subject
Two of the spirits are holding hands. Swinging hands, specifically. Joselyn pokes the end of her staff between them, and they reform either side of it, upright but vague figures with their hands on their hips.
no subject
It's a fine vantage point from which to watch as the figures to either side of Joselyn's staff warp, the arm of one coming away from its hip and stretching out. Stretching around, unnaturally long, and at last looping back around behind Joselyn to grip the crooked arm of its partner. The shape is unpleasant, unnatural.
With a tsk from behind her teeth, Miriam tucks her staff up high across her shoulder and begins to pick her way down.
"I'll clear them out."
no subject
It feels a little like the chasm she had been afraid of yawning wide between them as girls, watching Miriam be taken away. Then, she had known immediately what must be done about it and she had resolved to do it at once; now, her feelings are not half so clear as the tolling bell to guide her then, and neither the way forward.
Maybe it would be easier if the unfamiliarity was more pronounced, instead of this half-step, this key change.
“How much longer, do you think?”