Fingers Stretch'd O'er Darken'd Hold

Re: Fingers Stretch'd O'er Darken'd Hold

Postby catch » Sat Jul 07, 2012 6:45 am

If anything could describe Catch, it was unpredictable. There were times when he would rage at her denial, worm-paths that, when traveled down, led to nothing but the black, mud-and-blood that clings, sucks, and boils. It is something that could happen, but here, it does not, for his rage is spent, his shock at what They had done emptying his mind. They must have done it to punish him, of course. What better way than to make her fall apart, when he wanted to put her back together? Catch hesitates as he pulls his things together; here, here is a feather that sings a different song, but he did not see the hand that delivered it. He takes it, of course. Strange is sometimes wonderful, and Catch puts the ticklish thing to his rough lips, lipping it gently, as he had to taste the dirt.

"You're wuh, welcome," he responds, more out of habit than anything else, because it is what one says after they receive a 'thank you', and he does not understand what he may have done to deserve it. She is laughing, now, and whatever else Catch may have said is trailed away, left for the air to take it. She is laughing. For a panicked moment, he wonders if she has figured out his plan, but the next instant, it is dismissed. How could she possibly figure it out? Pies may just be amusing for her. Yes, that was all; and Catch's lips twitch and spasm into a grin, and his own, husky laughter chortles, where hers is silent. he is easily swayed by the emotion of others, and he will cry when they cry, and laugh when they laugh.

"Rummm pie," he giggles, drawing out the word. Yes, he plans to put rum inside it. It is not exactly a lie.
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Re: Fingers Stretch'd O'er Darken'd Hold

Postby Carnath-Emory » Sun Jul 08, 2012 4:22 am

Strange is sometimes wonderful. And caution is sometimes kindness, for while she'd wanted so very much to identify that contribution to Catch's collection, something stays her words. Some very quiet concern that had he known he may have turned away from the thing completely, and it should be enough for her simply to know that it's there amongst the rest. Should be; is, she soon discovers, as he examines it between his fingers.

"Agnie seems angry, I think, because she wishes she were like she used to be - before her bones went into the earth." It is something she should have addressed long minutes ago; their misunderstanding - yes, call it that - had intervened. And perhaps it's inappropriate to raise the matter again at all, but still... "It is not you who has angered her. Do you see?" And she can say this without grieving, only because that grieving were done with long ago; two years ought to be time enough to settle such a matter in one's heart; that one night upon the tavern steps should really have exorcised it completely. "She is sad that she is what she is, sad that not everyone understands it well." To speak the words at all feels like a hypocrisy. Well. Hardly the first time for that...

But oh, this laughter, and her eyes have peeked over the edges of her knees in the midst of it all; have found that he smiles, and this is more a relief to her than she'd quite imagined likely. His laughter as well, whatever its cause, but having begun how is she to manage this? For: Rum, he's intoning, and she's grinning over again until the stitches begin to sting, but then:

"A rum pie sounds very delicious. But Catch, when you are to make this pie you must be sure that your fingers are clean, mn? Or else there may be dirt into his pie, and Glenn Burnie will not like a dirt pie at all."
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Re: Fingers Stretch'd O'er Darken'd Hold

Postby catch » Sun Jul 08, 2012 12:54 pm

To his credit, Catch hardly flinches as she mentions dirt-pies. His smile does not waver, and only his lips twitch a little wider, as if his grimace-grin could dissuade her from the motion. She is smart. She is very, very smart, perhaps Glenn-smart, and Catch decides that he must be careful in more ways than one. He doesn't enjoy thinking like this, even if it had been told in kindness. He can thank Ser Elliot and Cinnabar with words, but the feeling, it is not there.

"I will m-m-make certain they are nuh, not," he is quick to assure, and then he has new-words to think on, and may dismiss the sickly unease, the slimy fingers that come with being on-edge, being suspicious of good intentions. Even now, he is growing uncomfortable, for this is skirting lying, and the addled man squirms where he sits, glancing for the door, wondering so hard on how soon he may escape with his baskets of Glenn-dirt that he almost, almost, forgets everything she says about the Wormwoman, even as she says it.

"She's angry b-b-because I Saw," he says, finally. "And. And, b-b-because I tell it. But people sh-sh-should know, shouldn't they? Thu, they should be warned if th-they're touching worms. Some p-p-p-people, they don't like worms." Catch couldn't understand it, but there it was. The feather is tucked, tenderly, into a pocket, and the addled man looms to his feet, carefully - and finally - disentangling himself from the greenery, to step out onto a more appropriate path.

"... I c-c-could put her together, if she'd only ask," he says, though there is an uncertainty, there, that had not been there before he had tried with Ariane. It takes so little to shake his faith. But, here, his eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare, as if he smells something sudden and distasteful, smile fading to thin, pouting lines. "And. And if sh-she'd stop being cruel to th-the Eight. And apologize."
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Re: Fingers Stretch'd O'er Darken'd Hold

Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Jul 09, 2012 4:01 am

And really, imagine it: rum-pies that are mud-pies, like a prank she'd have wished upon Governors of years-past - and precisely the sort of thing she'd never have wished upon her student at all. Unless it were to work. If emptying her greenhouse soil into Glenn Burnie's stomach would end whatever ails him and restore him to what he ought to be -

Why, she'd hold him down for it herself.

"If a person does not like worms," begins the swordswoman meantime - and carefully now, because this acute little conundrum has her very much of two minds. "Then it is right to warn him if he is to touch them, I think. I would wish to know. Others may not care. It is different from one person to the next, mn?" With some wry motion about the corners of her mouth; different, it admits, and difficult. But he's moving to escape the glasshouse and she cannot fault him that; had been quietly amazed that he would linger confined for so long at all, and soon enough has stirred herself to follow. With a moment yet to ease the sting from her ankles, and to dust the soil from her pants-legs; a moment longer still to pause at its swinging door, and turn some quiet backward glance towards the slight wreckage which they've left behind them.

There's nothing to be done for that.
Except to sew what's perished back into the ground, and begin again tomorrow, and somehow the prospect hasn't the sting she'd expected...

There from the doorway she's hailed a passing someone with the lift of one hand, and they will confer with bent heads and quick, quiet tones. Her hand sketches out the dimensions of what is required: not quite Glenn-shaped, but certainly a thing of substantial size. And with the assistant headed towards their stables, the swordswoman has turned back towards Catch, fully intending to explain that the wait will be very short, when he suggests a thing which startles her into blinking instead.

"Have you told this to Agnie?" When she can speak at all, and that requires a moment's real effort; he is endlessly surprising, this one. "That you could make her as she was? And," the word's so out of place that she's made the obvious mistake, "who is the Ate?"
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Re: Fingers Stretch'd O'er Darken'd Hold

Postby catch » Sat Jul 14, 2012 4:19 am

She does all these things for him, and he accepts it, as a matter of course. Where, once, he may have cringed, may have thanked until the sheer thanking had become an annoyance, he merely stands, though he wishes to be out from November-halls, binding-walls, with precious soil in tow. He cannot help, through all his Lordly manner, that he fidgets. That he mutters, even though it is rude to do so, as Ariane speaks to her man. Just what he is muttering is, most likely, nonsense; the few snatches that may be overheard certainly cements it, and the flickering, unfocused way his eyes stare at nothing.

She has asked him a question, and he must do this to think. For who are the Eight? Agnie can wait, in the wake of that question. Finally, he comes back into himself, and he tilts his head down to regard Ariane. and it is good that she is alone, for the person she had called over had not been seen, so intent he was; and if they had remained, they would have appeared from nothingness. Poof. Catch would have fled in fright, and Ariane would have gotten nothing more.

"The Eight are..." he says, and stops, his lips and tongue working, his entire body trembling with the force of what he held. "... Wonderful," he will finally breathe. They are wonderful, aren't they? Like he himself. The addled man makes a step, one-two, of what dances he has seen at the Ball before it all collapsed in fire and fright, wriggling the energy out the only way he knew how, with swinging arms and a suddenly-fierce face.

"Noo-oo-oo," he drawls out, finding now, he could speak of Agnie. "She wuh, would r-r-run a su-word through me and p-p-put me in a hole again." Yes, she would be that angry. Yet, the way Catch speaks, he seems more frightened of the Hole than the Sword, never-mind that the Hole has been long smashed by he himself. He does not remember, the moment of Remembering, only that there had been the Hole, and then, he was free.
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