#mindsmade

Ranger: Sharp onion then?

Druid: No, sharp knife.

Ranger: I mean, you were tearing up because the onion was sharp, right?

How he got to that question between casting a puzzled stare towards the monks kneeling on the corner of Ventura and Skyline, and knocking back a can of Tiancha Kumquat eludes him. Amusement, though, doesn't — it smears itself squarely across his face, tipping his lips into a lopsided grin. V's eyebrows meanwhile shoot towards his hairline – as if to say 'what do you think?' – before he downs a couple of mouthfuls of Chromanticore, and wipes his forehead with his forearm. Today's a scorcher — especially under the heavy blanket of smog capturing the city's heat in the streets.

❛ Heh. Think you'd need to pull the trigger for it to be a full-blown robbery, buddy. ❜ Without warning, he claps Jackie's shoulder — mid-sip, but he can take it. He's a big boy. ❛ So let's not test that theory. I aim to keep ya around for a long time yet. We got a city to conquer, after all. ❜

jackie thinks himself a damn genius for having the idea -— one of those lightbulb moments.   v doesn't see it.   naturally, he takes it as further evidence of his brilliance.               the greatest minds were always misunderstood. he scoffs,     waves a hand.     "nah.    estarían perdiendo la cabeza,    you know,    feeling my fear."      of course,    that implies—      "not that i'd be scared or nothin'." brushing that idea off,     his shoulders roll back.     the leather of his jacket squeaks.

@mindsmade (Ethan Chandler) | continued from x

What a complicated image the American places in her mind. Father does talk admirably about the West, but it’s all in economic terms and with the potential for financial growth by going on and on about investing in a ranch with cattle on it of all things. It makes her wonder which of his business partners is responsible for putting such a wild scheme in his head. She holds her suspicions. Of course, British sensibilities rather glorify the British imperial civilizing mission and stress service to the empire than give heed to American democracy. It's enough to complicate anyone’s thoughts on those from over the pond. She hopes to think of them as less caricatured than the performers of Buffalo Bill's Wild Westers. Although, the stark difference in accent does get to her.

     Small hands stay lightly folded on her lap, her bodiced torso slightly turning to give the gentleman on the bench more attention than the green lawn of the park. Acceptance of his apology coaxes a relieved smile on untinted lips. Then comes the title of "Miss," making her feel younger than she. At the same time, she realizes it's a bit awkward and improper not being introduced by another, but she gets over it. Perhaps they do things differently in America.

karlach will cease in a few seconds. the thing about being touch-starved isn't that she just thirsts for any touch available -- just like somebody on the verge of dehydration needs water and nothing else or it may ruin them. karlach needs that sense of loyalty , trust , and even a certain soft affection that is something far more permanent than a single high from some touch would ever get her. SHE WANTS LOVE.

... to love and to be loved. both those things so evenly.

karlach's hand falls away , her own fingers hovering in front of her abdomen to inspect them. she doesn't really stop to think about how much this whole entire thing effects her until she's in the middle of moments like these. and she's far from upset , she even has this blue tint. THIS ISN'T THE FIRST TIME SHE'S HAD THIS BLUE TINT AROUND AERENDYL. maybe she should mention that color is more of a at peace mood , something even happier than she's originally capable of. maybe he realizes.

Berúthiel well recalled the tents used by her father’s people in her youth, when journeys across the rolling umber of the desert were undertaken. Four-cornered, the fabric of a sleek and heavy weave, they had been little islands of cool dim luxury amid the heat and wind of the dunes. Servants had scattered the floor in woven rugs to soften it, and spread over the rugs had been cushions for the comfort of the tent’s inhabitants. A central pillar, jointed to fold up easily for the journeying, had held the vault of it aloft; matching pillars at each corner, with ceiling-ribs to support the weight of the fabric above. Artisans had carved those pillars and those ribs with detailed designs, of leaves and of the big eared desert foxes and of licking flames, and peering watchful eyes. From the ribs they’d hung lamps, glowing with the warmth and scent of burning oil through the colored glass panes. Each tent had been a quiet oasis, comfort and calm.

This tent was the descendant in spirit from those, in aura if not in every specific. She stepped within its curtained space at Aphanarû’s invitation to do so and felt herself falling, falling through time, falling through memory. The curtain fell behind her, closing her into the space. Berúthiel stood stock still, breathing through the flood of memory as it enfolded her as the tent’s rich dimness enfolded her; standing in front of her was the princeling, the handsome and tall and strong young man whose desire for her was as palpable and intoxicating as incense burning in a bowl.

She felt abruptly light-headed in a strange way, a flutter of some weakness in her chest and throat. Berúthiel despised weakness in herself, long had; it was a vulnerability which she could not afford to take root in her. She had not fought her way to this life, this extended existence, only to be weak and to be fragile! 

Taking two quick steps forward, Berúthiel sank to her knees among the cushions in a graceful way, one which aimed to disguise the strange giddy feeling which ran through her like water. She could only hope that the dimness of the tent would equally disguise any strangeness in her expression, any pallor ashing her cheek.

“May I ask that there be tea served, my prince?” she murmured, looking up at him through her dark lashes. It was something of an impudence, to request refreshments rather than waiting to be served; but she asked with the proper respect in place in her tone. To find where they together might stand in this place, where he was Prince and she merely his sapthêth, was an act of balance and careful testing.

The film festival has started. People buzz, a whole ocean of them in a nauseating mix of a hundred colors, cameras flashing off and a spotless red carpet spread over the plaza. People have begun stepping out of their cars. Women show in dresses. Men, in sharp, sharp suits. And as reporters flash their smiles and the public swells, the sound of chatter and laughter spills and dribbles out into every off-camera alleyway and condemned warehouse, the homeless rousing under sheets of newspaper. 

What will they be airing tonight? Révérence, Reception Hall, something from the next Scorsese. Kron, dressed in all black, knows it’s him by the hair before he ever really sees him. 

V, he remembers. The Peralezes paid V and he somehow wormed and found his way into Kron’s private realm of existence.

Kron's voice reaches out before he could walk past him.