Hades Boons, But As Potions

Hades Boons, but as potions

last shot ; make it count

@mourrow ━ cont. on another post bc legacy editor ( I NEVER FORGOT THEM 🥺🥺 )

"The world is counterfeit to me, Tempest. they'd long since given up questioning me ━ unlike you, and your burning curiosity."

Dustfinger pays no mind to the attitude befouling his companion, the half answer falling from his tongue as gracefully as he is himself : which is only to say what elegance he lacks is reimbursed with his eccentricities, ones you can observe but accept, understandable in the way he is; and as such, acting as a mask.

something holding him down ; something hidden. you could pry it from him, but rarely in his life has never made it easy.

He keeps his head dipped more than his shoddy posture would usually have him poise naturally, one hand fanned out above his brow to block out the sun as the other holds the map, sun shining off the plastic sheen in a way that made it half blinding to try to read, but Dustfinger was a man of many apathies, and with apathy often trails patience. ━ or rather, the mockery of patience, to replace where a heartache he cannot dwell on lest he is consumed by it hollowed him out, balancing the weight & the weightless. ━━ He doesn't dare to bother with looking at Morro despite his answer until he stakes a finger at Gwins pocket. ━ Something which earns Morro a sidelong glance as Gwin swivels and shakes her slender body in the hidden comfort of the fabric with the same dexterity as children might toss & turn with a certain violent carelessness when half asleep, but no less angry as one being greeted with a rude awakening.

"Mind your fingers," he speaks casually, but with a certain dry knowingness that may have been almost uncomfortable should you remember who you spoke to. "Gwin's of richer blood than any rat, and sharper nerve than your delicate little hands would be keen to." ( undead or not )

Dustfinger continues his steady pace as the word delicate rested itself on the haunch of his tongue like sugar, too sweet for him. neither exactly intended as insult or discredit to the boy, but rarely do words fall from him as they should. To Dustfinger, it was stating the inherent: masters of wind must be of softer hands than fire, naught to be burned by ice or blaze or scored in turn by earth reclaiming stones from the iron in your blood; wind was a delicate thing to unravel & work, and as such, delicate hands were inherent to wield it, to him. dexterity in weaving silk to something greater, the battle there is with something that wants to twist one way when you force it to another

━ Dustfinger never forced the flame, to him; it was a friend, but here, in this shoddy, too cold & too hot place, it was mindless, sparkless, out of itself.

to Dustfinger, it was, anyway, which of course didn't matter half as much as it might have been to anyone else, were he anyone else.

After another effort to read the map ( a part of him tempted to carve the parchment out of its plastic prison with his knife like game ) he sighs, feeling Gwin threaten ━ no, actively ━ try to chew another hole into his pocket as if to express as loudly as possible her insatiable hunger with her regained consciousness; maybe he shouldn't have half taunted / half warned the Windswept of her, he fears they might have more in common than he thought.

He enters into a decently busy area ━ perhaps a market-place? it's always hard to tell for him, eyes trained enough to recognize the staples, but never to the same certainty he knew his own world with ━ and Dustfinger scans the area with clearer eyes than he'd ever given Morro, sharp with wit but somehow never to the extensions you knew it could reach if he only allowed it to be ( or maybe it wasn't Dustfinger holding himself back at all, maybe it was something else entire ), as he steps into the center of the area. not many. ah, well. maybe it didn't matter. this would do fine.

He hauls off his backpack; a rugged thing in how it weighed him down undesirably; and began to unpack, slipping off his coat as he did. He, with a learned precision, plucks Gwin out of his pocket as he does, but blood is still drawn regardless of his efforts towards caution ( the worn skin around his eyes tense at the pain, wrinkling itself like an indebted answer ). he pops her in the bag, quick as a thief, and pulls out from another pocket a small chunk of bread no bigger than the tip of his pinkie; convincing enough to get her to release him, blood trickling from where her sharp teeth dug through, and he continues preparing as she takes the bribe & scurries further within the bag to devour it.

perhaps old habits never died in beasts as quiet and distant as them ━ claustrophobia turned to comfort from the years of being tucked into corners, half used, half forgotten, as ages took rampage and they did in turn. confined spaces in a bright building full of nothing, high ceilings taller than they could reach, boxes full of everything. Perhaps then its obvious why they roam, tucked under ridges and tables, when the 'plex closes then, and why it's them to be found tucked tightly 'neath a kiddies table in the play center, drawn out by the methodical sound of movement long after there should be none; they were curious then, they were curious now.

long limbs slink out from hiding, a many-jointed snake of parts, clicking in their unravelling from the self-chosen confined space never meant for them. their parts are old, only mended enough to be, a failed idea, but nothing more, and with the old metal comes a certain lack of stealth as they stand, then loom behind the lion, mask tilted, pinprick curiosity as they look down, down, down at her

a question, a voice-box never given, information telegraphed regardless ( the joys of being mechanical )

━ ' what are you doing, kin ? '

" making slime is very calming . " squish , squish . knead , knead . dandie it's almost 2am , please go back to your charger and stop messing with the half - finished slime that the kids left in the daycare .

"That may be... very well and true, and the sentiment is appreciated, but-"

... "Wait, how did you come upon this knowledge in the first place-???"

" He gave you PROBLEMS AND ISSUES so I'm going to do the SAME to him. "

@theaterrush ━ evren & icarus!

For a bright, blinding moment, there's a pang in Evren's chest that responded to the jab with a simple 'i hate you.' ━━━ like a cold fact of a dead thing already buried, like an answer they already knew but the impulse of their mind felt the need to reinstate: I hate you. The gravity wasn't in the weight, it was in the speed, the snap at which it came to them at. I hate you like a lightning strike. I hate you like a beartrap. I hate you like a blade through a collarbone. ━ a half temptation, but a faulty one. ( Xey had either took the knife from them already, or if they didn't, Evren wasn't interested in proving how predictable they were, the way mankind was unavoidably / the same way mankind is prideful enough to try to avoid it, and how that makes them predictable, too. )

Makes 'them' predictable too. ━ Like Evren wasn't part of mankind enough anymore to say 'us'. Maybe they were. Maybe it was just ill conceit. They weren't interested enough to bother figuring out which.

Evren makes a small, clicking sound with their tongue as they poke at their food they'd gotten as though thoughtful ━ it was just fast-food. they could barely order without being recognized & therefore questioned just a couple days after the 31st. They'd almost asked Icarus to order for them, but decided against it just as quickly.

In the same way they decided to risk it & order for themselves, Evren comes to the same conclusion: they don't hate Icarus, they just don't trust them. But xey weren't doing xemselves any favors, either.

" You can just say I'm a problem, you know, instead of dancing around the words like you did with killing God yourself. Makes it a lot easier on the both of us when you're blunt for a change. " Evren swings the retort back, voice casual & nonchalant for the sharpness ━ almost bitterness ━ in the words themselves, before taking a bite of their food.

They weren't entirely sure of what they expected in the first place when they asked Icarus the question, maybe it was an attempt to know xem better when xey were wholly unknowable up until this point, maybe it was a strange compulsion prompted by the guilt underneath & this was simply how they'd chosen to cope with what had happened and the strain of it all, maybe it was something else entirely. The question had been asked, and now, they were settled to reap its consequences.

━ I don't hate you, I just don't know you. ( in a way, they liked that. Liked them. How strange it was. )

"Plus," they add after finishing chewing, the meat cheap & rubbery " You told me I could use the knife against Them, you didn't say I couldn't use it on anyone else. " anyone deserving. they deserved it. they deserved it. their eye-socket still aches from a pain's origin that no longer exists. " I'd think that'd be a pretty big fine-print. What, not used to people not just doing what you tell them? "