[ 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.)
And Lune doesn't go out of her way to give him any tips or clues to her exact whereabouts. Verso's used to navigating and finding his way, after all.
She's wandered out a little ways from the main camp: still within the perimeter, well within shouting or screaming distance in case she winds up in trouble, the distance exactly-calculated. But enough to gain a little space, some distance from the unsettling silent stare of the Curator, a small clearing where her restless pacing won't risk waking the others. Unknowingly, unconsciously, she's wound up near where the horizon falls away, the sort of view Gustave always favoured when he went to write in his journal.
And still never one to waste time or sit idle, Lune sets down their phonograph — she'd hauled it over — and starts paging through their small stack of records.
She hadn't wanted the Victrola on the Expedition; had been adamant that it was too bulky and clunky and cumbersome, that they needed the space for more food or climbing gear or even a microscope.
But Tristan, knowing her fondness for music, had packed it in his own personal allotment. Had cited some past psychological study about the therapeutic effects of music in high-stress environments.
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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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Don't worry about it. The maître will come to you.
prose bc i tire of coding on mobile
And Lune doesn't go out of her way to give him any tips or clues to her exact whereabouts. Verso's used to navigating and finding his way, after all.
She's wandered out a little ways from the main camp: still within the perimeter, well within shouting or screaming distance in case she winds up in trouble, the distance exactly-calculated. But enough to gain a little space, some distance from the unsettling silent stare of the Curator, a small clearing where her restless pacing won't risk waking the others. Unknowingly, unconsciously, she's wound up near where the horizon falls away, the sort of view Gustave always favoured when he went to write in his journal.
And still never one to waste time or sit idle, Lune sets down their phonograph — she'd hauled it over — and starts paging through their small stack of records.
She hadn't wanted the Victrola on the Expedition; had been adamant that it was too bulky and clunky and cumbersome, that they needed the space for more food or climbing gear or even a microscope.
But Tristan, knowing her fondness for music, had packed it in his own personal allotment. Had cited some past psychological study about the therapeutic effects of music in high-stress environments.
(She's grateful for it, now.)
no brackets we die like men
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