A Thistle Among Roses.

The giant never knew what to do in this unfortunate situation when it occurred. Neither possible course of action prevented him from being seen. Remain still, and he was, as the humans said, a sitting duck, just waiting for the human to spot him. His height rivaled the younger trees; it would be not a matter of if, but when, he was noticed looming there among them. Leave, and the loud sounds and tremors of his footfalls would undoubtedly alert the human to the presence of something large, draw the eyes, and make him known.

Ingvar, it seemed, had chosen incorrectly today by attempting the former. At first, in fact, he didn't even realize the question was directed at him. But there was no one else around. No one at all. And once he did realize it, there was hesitation — too much hesitation — to speak. The human (oh, please don't let him be a hunter) could surely see it, even at a distance: there was panic in those great green eyes. Perhaps if he'd only stay quiet, his racing thoughts reasoned, then maybe he'd be believed a trick of the mind, false, and he'd be left alone, and—

No. He couldn't do that. It would only make things worse when the truth came.

His boots remained firmly planted where they were on the damp earth, and lips parted, lower one quivering, and yet no response came at first. Wisps of condensation, smokesque and sporadic, slipped from his beard as his warm breaths hitched in a startled gasp. Words failed him, as though all of his English had packed up and bolted as quickly as it could the moment he'd realized with dread that the human was speaking to him, and therefore keenly aware of his presence there not one-hundred of his tiny strides away. He swallowed thickly, heart in his throat and pounding, pounding, pounding. Speech coming in response to him was immensely preferable to screaming, shouting, crying, or any combination hitherto, it was true; nevertheless, this was little consolation for the giant's nerves. Curse his stature...!!

It was a long enough pause that Thistle's mind had begun to... explore the possibilities. What did he know about giants? Was this a giant? Well, really he knew nothing for sure-— assuming he was seeing what he was seeing and was NOT hallucinating somehow. But what did media have to offer? Also not much. A man-eater or a gentle giant were on the table and he wasn't so naïve as to just declare those the only camps available. Thistle had encountered enough bump in the night creatures with banal hobbies or jobs that it'd quelled any real commitment to making assumptions based on scary movies or fairytale books.

Thistle took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled the plume. He wasn't calm by any means but he also wasn't so scared shitless that he felt inclined to flee or fight; he was perfectly content to stay planted right where he was. He shook a hand out as if to expel his nerves, clenched and unclenched it a few times. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

❝ Fair point. I reckon I don't know much about bein' false neither. ❞ Was he being loud enough? Too loud? Was he too close? Too far? ❝ Well, shit. ❞ This was quiet, a mumbled curse under his breath. He licked his lips and cleared his throat.

❝ This uh... your land? I didn't mean to intrude or spook you or nothin'. Weren't uh... weren't lookin' for you. Just kinda a chance encounter. Cross my heart. ❞ Words over actions was a good enough indicator to Thistle that the stranger was docile. Or, at least, wasn't going to be the aggressor without provocation.

❝ I can leave. Don't wanna cause a fuss. ❞ He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder without looking back.

It was wild to think what was just around. Hell, if plain old woods were hiding the likes of giants he shuddered to think what was in the ocean or something like the rainforests.

❝ Name's Thistle. Ah, hell. Wait-— y'ain't one of them forest dwellers you're not 'sposed to give your name out to, right? I mean too little too late if you are but-— dangit. ❞

He has been restless for a long time now. Knows why, and San told him that knowing is good because it gives him something to work with, a basis for action. She also said there is usually more than one way to go about doing something.

Surrounding himself with nature, getting as far as he can from any sign of civilization, helps—but his senses, sharp as they are, still feel the lack. Small sounds prick at the edges of his hearing and he must turn his head to listen more closely, scents mingle and smear and require more focus to discern this from that. The sound first, muted gulping of water, followed by a faint smell that he has encountered before. Reminds him somewhat of Lilli at first with a lingering of cigarette smoke and strawberries, but the rest is a more masculine jumble nestled in woodsy notes. He recalls a name in Malachi's voice.

Thistle?

Nove sees him first, eyes sharp through the dense thicket of greenery. Thinks about going on his way unnoticed, but after a moment rustles intentionally. Curious. When he first saw him, Thistle had fit right in to the civilized setting of Micky Smith's. At home in society in ways Nove was forever out of place. But now, seeing him here in the wilderness, hand ready on his knife, he's just as at home. Accepted.

There's a long-drawn silence as Thistle's questions hang between them. Nove, as should be expected by now, simply looks at him, and despite a lack of discernible expression there's a certain air to his silence. The implication is clear: Then what are you doing here?

"...It's my thing," he finally says, that same quiet tone and rusty edge to his words.

The information of disappearances is new to him, but being vanished is not his immediate concern. His manner of looking at Thistle changes slightly. Consideration. Malachi had said something about ghosts before, and Thistle had answered with whatever's spooky. Is he the kind of person that goes looking for trouble? Whatever the motive, it stands to reason that they are both at similar risk here—depending on the cause behind the disappearances, perhaps Thistle more so. The solution is obvious.

"We should go." It's a suggestion, no urgent inflection, but Nove makes no move to lead the way. He came across the decrepit trails by accident having been roaming through the untouched depths of the forest, and while he could backtrack well enough, he doesn't think leading Thistle deeper into the wilderness will be the fastest exit. Probably safer if Thistle takes them back the way he got here.

A familiar face had drew his hand away from his knife, had set his shoulders sinking into a more comfortable and at ease posture. Sure, he didn't know-know the guy, but he at least knew he wasn't some hulking beast who resided here that was dragging folks out here never to be seen again.

Okay, well... he at least knew the guy didn't reside out here. Everything else, he'd learned to not assume.

❝ It's your thing. Right. ❞ There was hesitance there, perhaps even a healthy dose of suspicion. The two stood there, the suggestion to leave hanging between them. Was he meant to lead? Thistle looked past Nove with a somewhat torn and troubled expression. Then, resolved, he sighed and dipped his head in a nod.

❝ Yeah, you're right. It'll be sundown soon. ❞ A civilian run-in meant no more hunting, no more detective work. Their well-being sort of took priority over everything else. ❝ C'mon then. ❞ He nodded in a beckoning gesture and turned, scrutinized the expanse of woods he'd come from and simply began to walk.

❝ Your thing just... showin' up in the deep-woods to freak folks out? On top of starin' at 'em? Where'd you even come in from? You seem a lil' underprepared for a hike is all. Y'know. No offense or nothin' meant. ❞

The HC Where I give Thistle Plot Armor.

In general he is a silly character that seems to keep surviving the horrors despite not always wanting to. I will be upping the ante though and declaring that.... the woods just like him.

Thistle in his ADHD glory, knows little bits here and there because of fleeting interest and short-lived hobbies. So he knows how to shoot guns, he knows the bare bones of surviving in the forest, camping, etc. But he's not an expert by any means. He was never a wildlife hunter, he never went out of his way to be that deep into nature. And yet? He rarely gets lost in forests even if he had never been there before. He always just ends up finding the way out or finding what he was looking for. For as average of a woodsman as he is, he always seems to get by just fine on luck and good fortune alone.

Disappearing into the back, he gathers a menu, mug, pot of coffee, and silverware bundle, bringing it all over to where Thistle sits, a small variety basket of little creams and sweeteners already available on all the tables. Being in Malachi's good books means he gets to keep the whole pot, no need to ask for refills. But now that he's close enough to actually study the guy the moment is upon them: Thistle can probably see the spark of realization as Malachi makes the connection between his name and his face right before he says "Oh! Think I saw you on Youtube the other night. Ghosts?", swiftly followed by the realization that that was probably what he'd been looking for in the hesitation from before, and that he'd maybe seemed a little happy not to have had a deal made about who he was.

Whelp. Cat out of bag, foot already in mouth. Although to be fair, he was presumably a willing participant in the whole having-a-channel thing that could run the risk of getting recognized. Anyway.

"Nnnot that that has anything to do with what I can get ya. I'll give ya a few minutes."

There was something comforting about the smell of coffee, about the warmth of it. Caffeine never hit him in that electric way it did most people and so he didn't exactly seek it out for those reasons. It was the comfort of it, the familiarity, and the ease in which it could be incorporated into some semblance of a routine.

His attention had lingered on his phone as he attempted to speed his way through skimming the last line of the email on his screen-— no good. Thistle had retained absolutely none of it and he couldn't even summarize the damn thing by the time he was setting his phone down so Malachi could scoot over the pot (the whole pot) of coffee along with a mug, a menu, and some silverware.

Thistle's smile didn't fade when that spark of realization flickered, when that second boot had finally dropped. Truth be told, he had an impressive knack for readings folks and Malachi at least had read as pretty chill; he wasn't expecting any super-fan freak out from him.

❝ Mainly, yeah. Ghosts are the hot item but it's really whatever grabs our attention that's... y'know, spooky. ❞ There was a beat where Thistle had allowed space for whatever came next in these situations. Pictures, autographs, just chats or questions. In the meantime, he'd let his gaze slip past just briefly enough to catch the gaze of Nove. It was quick, nothing but a flicker to meet it and then a flicker to travel back to Malachi.

No such requests came and instead the man seemed to try and smooth over what had been assumed to be an uncomfortable situation for Thistle. The Southerner smiled that slight and polite smile and nodded and dutifully let his eyes fall for the menu as he was left be.

True to his word, he didn't attempt to flag down anyone until the establishment was officially open. Thistle had worried over the menu a bit and then had simply decided instead of trying to wrangle his brain into plucking a choice from the numerous options, he'd just have whatever it was Nove had been eating when Thistle had stumbled in.

❝ Y'all been here long? This a family joint or...? ❞ He didn't want to keep the man long with other customers now present, but it felt like a polite enough thing to do to try and be a little engaging with someone who let him sit his ass down before they'd even been open.