#clayric

He hadn’t meant to go so far off path; not eager to become yet another statistic. Yet the trees had seemed to grow and change and fascination took hold before preservation did. The glow puzzles him, though the figure more so. Foot stepping without a thought until something breaks under his foot. He winces. “Uh...don’t suppose those are your...glowing mushrooms...? Sorry...”

   FOUR fingers, dexterously weaving locks over another in humid night; toes curled as goblin girl sits on her shins. As a YOUNG halfling girl, she never had the OPPORTUNITY to braid anyone’s hair -- The many people that she really kept to were her family ( not the nicest ) and her family -- and neither had long hair.

  A little childish GLEE escapes from her laugh, focusing on the hair she was beginning to braid. CADUCEUS’ hair was LONG and silky -- and she had to admit -- the short, prickly bits that were adjacent to the long threads felt... ticklish, really.

   @clayric​ cast message:    comb

               his hair is longer than it’s been---ever, possibly. since childhood loose curls and ponytails, for certain;  it feels different, slightly, when he feels someone else’s fingers through it, even a little different to when nott wove a braid through it merely some months ago, in a way he can’t fully pin on the tempo of it. caduceus’s fingers brush against his scalp less frequently, bringing that much more attention to it when they do, the weight of his hair and the way it tightens and is let go in turn under the other’s handling has a different rhythm to it, and he can’t tell with absolute certainty what is being done to it behind his back, not with how far’s caduceus can keep his motions at times... but it feels nice. despite the ever-present current of being in the hands of someone else---even someone he trusts, even someone he likes---caleb manages to relax, allow his head to follow the motions of the little shifts and tugs without needing any thought to do it. the shift comes slowly, step by step and he can’t tell when exactly he manages to come as close to losing himself to the safety of the moment as he thinks is possible for him in this lifetime.

                   ( not that he notices it, but he has stopped turning pages in his book several minutes ago, right after opening the current one, and even that half-heartedly;  that would be a good moment for someone more perceptive to guess. )

Fingers carded through his hair as his free hand tapped anxiously on the desk in front of him. The books he brought over from his house to the.... balleater sprawled out in front of him as he tried to research through them, but his anxious mind wouldn’t let him focus, not on this. Not right now.  Even after the Mighty Nein figured out the TRUTH he still wasn’t comfortable around them ( how could one be around the friends betrayed? ) But it was better then being alone back in Xhorhas. And if he wanted to gain any semblance of trust back from them he had to be transparent with his actions. Right? That is what one did to gain trust back.... right?

         ( stay silent in the presence of decay )   jamie walks in their silence, phone long forgotten on nightstand, spells like this take concentration.   (  their bones have stories for you. )   they’ve heard of the graveyard out here, bare whispers of magic, the trees radiate with it, something not unlike them.   ( you just need to learn to listen. )   they stop, irritated with lack of concentration, how feeling flickers because really they should be better at this by now, but they are self taught in their talent and haven’t taken the time to teach patience.   “ -   -  jesus, i should have brought my scooter. ”

            WAR OF THE FOXES —- accepting!

        It feels haunted, here.  Caleb has been at enough places of burial, enough graves  ----  accidental or purposeful, shoved bodies in a ditch or a spectral cat's claw churning earth under his own call  ----  that it should perhaps not make his skin crawl as it does, not make the world seem to prickle with unrest.  At the back of his neck, the hair rises:  he can tell himself it is the chill in the morning air, the frost that glistens on the ground, hardening all the gravestones to a shining shell of themselves, but it seems to be something deeper, something far more ancient than even the turns of the weather.  At a nudge from his thoughts  ----  'are we safe here?'  ----  Frumpkin picks up a soft pace, keeping a few strides ahead of both Caleb and the firbolg as they pass through the stones.  Another prick on the back of his neck, the kiss of ice, and one that almost makes Caleb turn but for the fact that he can see a few white spots begin to dapple his familiar's coat.