Wake up des you fucked up big time

"You have no one to blame but yourself if you're so easily distracted, Mister Drake."

"If you keep standing that close, I’m going to assume you want something." for Arianna from Des

TESTING THE CHEMISTRY / plotted

IS IT REALLY SO HARD for adults to speak without mincing their words? See, his sentence sounds simple, but there's a few words that tick off very important boxes in her head. Her father and etiquette tutor painstakingly taught her the importance of words, but catching double meanings still elude her. Is this man irked by her presence? It isn't polite to stare, she knows, but is it that big a deal? He's a scholar. All he does is look at stuff, whether it's a book, a paper, or wall.

NO, HE SAID THAT CLOSE. Is she closer than necessary? No, there's a fair distance between him and the wall she's peeking around. Maybe it's because she's been here for so long. Maybe she's overthinking things. Either way! He initiated conversation, not her, which works just fine. Maybe he's just as curious as her. Scholars do like learning. He studies the same discipline as Luke's parents. She asked, and Miss Brenda said he is top of the field. An expert in the Azran civilization, an ancient people known for leaving their things everywhere. That's what Arianna got out of the conversation.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do." Arianna holds her chin high and comes out from behind the wall. Her arms are crossed behind her back, fingers tightly intertwined. Despite her clean and prim appearance, she rocks on her heels. Her little frown and big eyes are nervous, but she stands tall.

Desmond doesn't want her here, but he has no good reason to try and force her to leave. He tries to focus on his work and ignore her stare burning into his back; she practically lives in the garden, now, it's only natural that she'd be curious. The thought does nothing to ease the discomfort he feels, however—and so eventually he finds himself compelled to speak.

For a long few moments there is no answer—but nor does he hear her scurry off. He's just about resigned himself to having an audience when she finally emerges. The professor turns just enough to glance over his shoulder, and sees nothing but a young child trying her best to be patient and polite, against all odds. It is enough to make his heart ache. He'd never thought their father would be so spineless.

Desmond looks back to the wall that he's been recording the carvings of in meticulous detail. None of what he's translated so far contains what he needs; everything else has been an afterthought—until now.

"I've learned a great deal about it," he answers. "With much more still to go." There's a pause, but Desmond simply can't resist—instincts ingrained into his very being after years of professorhood, even if she is much younger than his usual students.

"This garden is... Quite spectacular. The flora in here dates back millions of years; you won't find anything else like it anywhere else on Earth. It's like a living time capsule."

Desmond finds it bittersweet. In another life, they could have spent their career just studying this tiny self-sustaining ecosystem. Now it's nothing but a simple race to get what they need before Targent arrives and irrevocably contaminates it.

#coltzfoot ; ind. priv. sel. yellow from deltarune. penned by nova. they/them. gmt+5. 21. 18+ only. chapter 5 & entire game spoilers inbound.

| BANNER | BORDER | DIVIDER ONE | DIVIDER TWO | DIVIDER THREE |

There has been a disturbance in the water; a change drastic enough that its vibrations can be felt from miles away, if her distant scouts' thoughts are correct. Her network will soon deliver news from the site, but this time... This time, something compels her to investigate personally. There's an unusual but familiar presence she can't quite place, shifting not only in strength, but also elevation. The surface-dwellers have been known to excavate the ruins of the old structures their ancestors built during her girlhood, but such a large change all at once is entirely unprecedented.

And so she heads toward the source, her movements slow as she ponders what she might find when she arrives. By the time she reaches her destination, it looks as if whatever surface creatures were at the scene have already passed. Except... No, there's still someone here. She can sense them, somewhere among the crumbling ruins that she assumes must be a recently-uncovered ancient structure. It does look familiar to her... Perhaps she encountered it once before, in her youth, before she realised the importance of such things. Regardless, her first priority is to establish contact with whomever it is that she senses. They can't be too far from the water. Perhaps, from higher ground, they can already see her at the surface.

The first day that Descole had set foot into the ruins had ended in cautious relief, after spending hours mapping out portions of the city all without encountering a single trap. Fool he had been to think that luck was finally turning in his favor. Now, several days later (three? four?) he has come to realize that the whole of Ambrosia is the trap, one big labyrinthian expanse of architecture. Corridors upon corridors, designs that would take years more study to try and work out the purpose of—nevermind the entire flooded underground portion that Descole can only pray does not contain what he seeks.

To say they are cranky is a severe understatement. They are all too aware that they are running out of time; Raymond is on permanent lookout duty to keep watch for the first sign of Targent coming out to claim the location while Descole surveys the city, running on a concoction of too little sleep, more painkillers than is probably wise, and not much else. The radio nestled in the inner pocket of their cloak is perhaps the only thing tethering them to sanity at this point. Shadows lengthen; some of these buildings have interiors that seem bigger than their exteriors. They keep seeing things out of their peripherals. They keep going because they’ve dealt with worse, or so they tell themself. Time is running out.

Descole climbs to the rooftop of one of the outermost buildings with their heart pounding in their ears just to see the sky again. The sun has sunk low to the horizon by now; all they want is to return to the Bostonius, but in lieu of that, the expanse of unmarred ocean in front of them will have to do.

Except—it’s not unmarred, no. A distant set of lights catch their attention out in the water. Descole squints, trying to discern if what they’re seeing is a Targent vessel, but it resolves into something else entirely, some massive, moving thing the likes of which he has never seen before. A whale, their mind wants to insist, but they know instinctively that isn’t right.

Whales surely don’t glow.

A voice echoes inside their head, sudden and unfamiliar. Descole whirls around, drawing their sword on pure instinct. The swift turn leaves them slightly dizzy, but they can’t see anyone else on the rooftops either. Nor can he spot anyone in the streets below—just puddles of seawater, and dead fish that hadn’t been lucky enough to get out of the way when Ambrosia rose. There can’t be anyone here. Descole checks the radio, clicking it just to hear the hiss of static. Raymond would have notified him if anyone else had come.

They’re hearing things. That’s all. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He watches as Descole slides into the bath, water immediately darkening and soaking their remaining clothes. Even with the slight billow and drift of their fabric, it leaves little to the imagination. Salem can't help but stare at the image of their toned stomach through the shirt that clings tightly to them, watching as it rises and falls in time with each breath, raking over the curves of their waist to their hips, to the outline of their—

Descole's words snap him out of his thoughts, finally tearing his eyes away from their figure. Meeting their hungry gaze only reinforces their observation, heat flowing through every part of his body, but how else is he supposed to respond to their constant flirtatious remarks? It's not his fault that they happen to be very effective remarks. He doubts a cold shower would solve his current situation anyway.

Descole stretches out, careful not to let their hat dip into the water, and eyes Salem as he perches carefully on the edge of the tub. Beautiful monochrome strands just within reach; it's tempting to reach out and pull, but Descole fancies themself not quite so cruel. Still, he teases at the ends with a little splash, lips curving with amusement.

Salem's words prompt a raised eyebrow, however. As if to imply that it's somehow Descole's fault that they had to move! Ridiculous. They have to admit, his ability to keep his tongue moving even while he's clearly hot under the collar is entertaining, but perhaps it's time for Descole to test the waters a little more, and see just how long Salem can keep that up. They reach up, settling warm, wet fingers around Salem's wrist. Their tone shifts subtly; Salem can still refuse, but this isn't a request. It's a command.