[ The lack of focus in Dickerson’s eyes is distinctly unappreciative of Bastien’s nearness in checking them. He turtles, a little, in his armor, chin tucked in, the stink of weed thick in his clothes and on his breath, a little something extra for the sirens when they catch up. There’s something else dripping in a fine line from his chin, serum gold and oily thick.
Presently, Marcus prompts him and he must feel for something in himself, a patting down of existential pockets that resolves in a muttered prayer and -- a beat later -- a reach for the kerchief left at his knee. ]
No.
[ Grim. No, he cannot heal. He blots under his nose instead, careful to use the less battered of his hands. Wysteria is saying words. Names of places. ]
no subject
Presently, Marcus prompts him and he must feel for something in himself, a patting down of existential pockets that resolves in a muttered prayer and -- a beat later -- a reach for the kerchief left at his knee. ]
No.
[ Grim. No, he cannot heal. He blots under his nose instead, careful to use the less battered of his hands. Wysteria is saying words. Names of places. ]
I don’t have my crystal.
[ Does anyone else? ]