station72 | mental link | morning of day :039

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mental link | morning of day :039

[ The ever present mental music that plays from the bard's end of the connection grows invasively louder sometime after breakfast, and it is rather anxious. The morning has been heavy enough already with packing getting underway, but this is due to something different. While the music in him is clear as ever, his thoughts stumble across the connection sloppily and desperately. ]

( I require a detective... I think. Oh dear, this is quite dire… )

[ He knows of several, but with the situation being as dire as he claims, well... he may need as much help as possible. All hands on deck. ]

( I believe someone has discovered that I am not Carbauschian, and... has poisoned me. )

[ The pauses between coherent thought are more than a bit dramatic, but he's being quite serious. ]

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[ Gildor wipes the side of his mouth on the back of one hand from where he sits, kneeling and folded over. He no longer needs Rust to hold the memory of Keya across the link - she is there and bloody and made real in his mind.

He keeps her at the forefront of his thoughts and goes through the motions. Fear, sadness, and anger that shifts to a rarely felt rage. It is silently desolate as his mind, but no less impassioned as his music. While condensed, everything is felt without hesitation, without temptation to drink and drown it all away. And though he didn't ask for this sudden onrush, he allows it.

It is a stark contrast to Rust. Gildor processes what was forced on him, but Rust drags up and inflicts pain upon himself. It draws the bard from his own processing and makes him scrutinize the detective. ]

( You are sick. )

[ Not an answer. A statement made on observation, plain and honest. No ill intent or bite behind it, though it is still cruel to say. One sick mess to another.

A pause before he offers a real answer, also sincere. ]

( Yes. )

[ When the anger comes he's there to meet it—to cling to it, find consolation in it, this evidence that at least one of their number can experience outrage that isn't collective. Know wrong for what it is. ]

( Yeah. ) [ He doesn't know in what sense the elf means it. Regardless: yeah. A precarious feeling, nerves and magnetic repulsion. Rust grimly reviewing his every brush with another mind, as though expecting bloody handprints.

Better. Yellow air, a book with a broken spine. Light writhing in front of his eyes. ] ( Doesn't mean she deserved this. ) [ The link between them goes abruptly slack. His next words are mechanical: ]

( Get some rest. )

( You're one to speak of rest. ) [ A reactionary thought that may have never been uttered if not for the connection. A snide whisper under the breath. Between that and all his other thoughts there's a tinge of regret, an unspoken apology that would just taste like more bile coming up.

Instead he tries to calm, to make their shared nausea ease. Meanwhile, rage sharpens to resolve. Whether it's all his isn't clear. The image of her still so profoundly imprinted in his mind, fixated. ]

( Find the knife and bring it to me. )

[ That's more of a tonic than any apology could be; a reminder to focus. Leave his own shit out of this. ] ( Be sober when I do. )

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		OSZAR »

mental link | morning of day :039

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