Fire-Dancer

Come into the light. Let me see your face.

inspired by: ✦ ⋆ 𖤓 ⋆ ✦ 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐕𝐄 

Basil took several seconds to register the stranger's command. His breathing was no longer rapid but slow and deliberate, and his head was swimming, making it hard to concentrate. Then, after a brief moment of hesitation, he pushed himself away from the wall that had been keeping him upright. There was blood on his shirt - rather a lot of it - and he must have looked like a ghost in the pale morning light.

"No hospital - please..." he had to get away from here, and he couldn't do that if he was stuck in a hospital, surrounded by worried onlookers.

Only, the artist didn't think he was going to make it home on his own - at least not before the street became so crowded that someone was bound to notice him. His best bet was to hope that the stranger who had happened upon him was just the right amount of concerned: not so much so that he would insist on getting him to a hospital - or worse, draw public attention to his current state - ; but not indifferent to the point of leaving him out in the streets in this state.

It must, judging by the pallor of his skin and the slight sway in his knees. But then, a person unused to violence might physically react the same way after witnessing -- or committing -- some bloody act.

No hospital.

Dustfinger's eyes darted around, looking for a body on the ground, and finding none, determined that the two of them were alone.

"No hospital," he repeated, confirming and agreeing.

She rolled her eyes, and this time did sit up, rolling her head carefully to ease the soreness in her neck. “Fuck man, let me check my map. In trouble is where we are. We’re just lucky our hands are tied in front, huh? Well, mine are,” she added quickly, glancing over at him to ascertain the same. She hadn’t been looking too close, before.

Nicole drew her legs in, shifting her weight awkwardly to work her way onto her knees, and clenched her fists in front of her with her elbows apart, frowning at the taut ziptie with concentration as she braced herself to break it. This part always hurt a little. “You ever done this before?”

He watched her every move cautiously. He'd been in this position plenty of times before, though usually in chains rather than zipties, and had sometimes managed to wriggle out of it, though not the way Nicole was attempting to.

Pulling his own wrists in front of his face, he mimicked her as best he could without understanding what she was about to do. Without knowing where they were or who had them, it was difficult to know how closely they might be watched and how much time they would have before being discovered.

But to know what it was like to fear... That was a different story altogether. The truth was that he feared Sara; he feared her in this very moment, with magic tickling across her fingers and talk of death on her lips.

He stood his ground, remaining stoic, eyes carefully tracking her hands. He couldn't imagine being in her place, couldn't even begin to. Their experiences were so different that he had no frame of reference for what she was talking about. She spoke as if what she said was something to feel sorry about, but he found himself doing the very thing that she disliked so much.

"Now, I don't have your friend. The door is open. You can leave, I don't trap people. On purpose anyway," the Doctor told the man. "Or you could stay and see if he shows up, I don't care."

This man was crazy. If he even was a man. And if not, Basta certainly wanted to get out. There was nothing here interesting enough to warrant sticking around. Fulvio would just have to fend for himself and meet him back at the village later.

While the man's attention wasn't fully focused on him, he crept backward, refusing to turn his back, until his hand found the handle of the door he'd come in through. He twisted and pulled, but the door was clearly locked. Some sort of automatic or electric lock.

A stab of fear shot through Basta's chest.

The door is open. I don't trap people.

So that had been a lie. It was better to find a door locked when no promise of freedom had been given than to find the offer false.

The dead of winter.. Fimbulvetr's first cold sigh. The youngest and only.. One who stands apart.. Her beginning an end, the quiet whispered warning before the horns.

She remained quiet a while, her stare contemplative and soul-piercing as it ever were. Then she smiled again, thoughts abandoned, "If I told you a name, would it have any meaning to you at all?"

"That depends on the name."

He had traveled farther than most, particularly most of his social class. He'd often brought home tales that others found preposterous. He knew names that few would recognize.

And yet he was almost certain that even he wouldn't recognize the place that Hel named.

He glanced up when the Director spoke, nearly having forgotten in his focus that he wasn't alone.

"No, this is good, thank you."

[Distracted Meme from @firejugglinghobo.]

The sender, distracted by the receiver, accidentally knocks over something. ------------

Clumsiness or inattention - neither was good when someone worked with fire, but when not actually performing could be given a pass. As long as nothing actually broke, which was Thera's second concern after 'what was that?'

"Are you OK?" Was third, which in hindsight might seem a little inconsiderate! The table wobbled, and anything that fell off bounced rather than shattered, and she put down the book she'd been reaching for to help pick them up.

Dustfinger's eyes dropped immediately, shame flashing across his cheeks.

"Fine, yes," he forced out, pointedly avoiding eye contact and almost missing the books he had knocked off of the table in his rush to get away.

He stooped to pick them up, only to straighten immediately as he saw her going for the same thing.

"Gets you out of the weather." Not a question, only agreement. She hadn't been in that situation herself for quite a while, but she remembered how it felt.

She also remembered how it felt to visit a museum just to look at things, and she was determined to enjoy some of that along with the other reason. Maybe, hopefully, she'd even find out that the book was in fact over-hyped, remarkable for being ancient and intricate but not for anything else. Maybe. Her newly purchased ticket held in one hand, she briefly crossed the fingers of the other.

He followed, keeping a slight distance between them. He had no interest in looking around the rest of the museum; the book was his only goal. And yet he should at least make an attempt to keep up appearances.

Red brows rise in subtle arches, something lighting in her eyes that can’t quite be missed. It’s something somewhere between recognition, interest, and desperation; something equal parts eager and afraid.

It's not really true, not anymore. But it's been a long time since he's been burned badly enough to pay it any mind. He relies on skill for that, not any special power or relationship.

"I know it too well."

Distracted by the Sexy starters

"Uh, hey, I was just, uh, wondering…"

"Seriously, my face is up here."

"Sorry, it's just… you look, um, really nice today."

"Can we focus on the task at hand, please?"

"I can't help it, you're just… distracting."

"Save the compliments for later, we have work to do."

"Okay, watch this time. No distractions."

"Maybe you should get your eyes checked."

"Are you even paying attention?"

The sender walks into something while ogling the receiver.

The receiver rolls eyes at the distracted sender.

The sender, trying to impress, offers to carry something for the receiver.

The receiver catches the sender attempting a sneak peek at them.

The sender, daydreaming about the receiver, almost walks into a closed door.

The sender, distracted by the receiver, accidentally knocks over something.

The sender, attempting to impress, flexes their muscles nonchalantly.

The sender, lost in thought, forgets what they were supposed to be doing.