It never feels like there’s enough time to do everything. Like I'm wasting precious time if I go to bed, but then I inevitably waste more struggling to fall asleep at all.
My parents would always tell the story of my first tantrum because I didn't want to go to bed because that meant, well, tomorrow coming.
[ The sinister cave had gotten under her skin in a way other places hadn’t. The oppressive silence, with nothing but the sound of your own footsteps and your heartbeat in your ears. The silhouette of the dead gestral merchant rising up out of the shadows: uncanny, disquieting. ]
[ Two voices now in the back of her head. One of them sounds very much like her parents, Lune chiding herself: We don't have time for this, we're still headed north, we have work to do. We can't let our guard down for one moment.
The other sounds very much like her older brother, Sol, warm and fond and reminding her: The brain is a muscle, Lune. You need to rest it, too.
So in the end: ]
Would you teach me? We could see if that'll tire us out enough.
[ They absolutely don't have time for fooling around, and Verso is pragmatic enough to think so, too—but it's not like they're getting anything productive done during his brooding time and her tossing-and-turning time, and it certainly wouldn't hurt to be on better terms with Lune. (For entirely practical reasons.)
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My parents would always tell the story of my first tantrum because I didn't want to go to bed because that meant, well, tomorrow coming.
Childish, maybe, but it set a pattern.
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But I think I don't want tomorrow to come, either. [ For a very different reason, but still. ]
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Anyway. I over-analyse everything. Perhaps sometimes a pipe is just a pipe, and you’re simply very frightened of wrinkles.
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Then again, it’s not like I’ve studied other immortals.
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But no, not at all. Just oppressive blackness. Like being stuck in a dark cave.
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[ The sinister cave had gotten under her skin in a way other places hadn’t. The oppressive silence, with nothing but the sound of your own footsteps and your heartbeat in your ears. The silhouette of the dead gestral merchant rising up out of the shadows: uncanny, disquieting. ]
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[ Unsettling nothingness. Walls closing in. Feeling like you can't breathe. Typical dark and tortured stuff. ]
Like that.
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Nope. Absolutely none. But I've heard it can make the time pass faster if you have someone else to share it with.
[ :-) ]
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You could take dictation for my notes, perhaps, and make yourself useful—
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You're looking for a research assistant.
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Mm. Perhaps. I'm the youngest; I didn't have anyone below me to bully into doing my paperwork. Besides Tristan, and he's
[ dead, as everyone else in their Expedition died on those dark sands, ]
no longer with us.
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Thanks to musical notation, I suppose.
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That being said, yes, this one is thanks to music.
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[ ok she might just be taking the piss now ]
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[ He's, like, so good at it. ]
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I'm not half-bad at the waltz.
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But I guess I haven't had much opportunity to practice these days, either.
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The other sounds very much like her older brother, Sol, warm and fond and reminding her: The brain is a muscle, Lune. You need to rest it, too.
So in the end: ]
Would you teach me? We could see if that'll tire us out enough.
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So: ] You'll have to refer to me as maître.
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Where are you, anyway?
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prose bc i tire of coding on mobile
no brackets we die like men
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