BATHE IN KEROSENE.

‘ i was kinda thinkin’ that the inn would have some rooms, but, uh. they’re not exactly friends of witches. ’ she offers a crooked, what are you gonna do? kind of smile as well as a hand.  he does look spectacularly young, doesn’t he? witches generally do, but he looked about ten. ‘ well, i’m penn. thatcher. so, what kinda witch are you, kiddo? ’

‘ i just came to pay my respects, or whatever. let you know i’m in town. probably will be for a while.’ setting down the charm she had been fiddling with, she leaned against the nearest table.  ‘ you’re kinda itsy-bitsy to be a witch with actual roots, aren’t you? ’ straight to the point, huh.

‘ i’ll be right out! ‘ 

                                          @wasteraised liked this .

     O’ Death

❛      g.k. chesterton said ‘ fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. children already know that dragons exist. fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed . ‘     ❜ she had a point to this , but she let the quote hang in the air as she took a puff from the butt that hung from her mouth . through chapped lips does smoke exit & she grins with hidden malice . ❛     you ever met a dragon ? and if so , did you slaughter it ?    ❜

he’s paying more attention to the butt in her hands than her words, having spent the day dancing with fire & feeling too close to it to not hear it singing at him inside the cigarette. there’s a brief, intrusive thought in brooklyn’s head that tempts him to make the fire burn brighter, burn more, & he pushes it away when he looks away, looking at his hands. there’s mud on them. 

     sure , otherness exists . fleur , herself , doesn’t make too much of a big deal of it. sometimes , others love to make it known – act over the top , shed their skin or whatever . change shape in front of people . isn’t her thing . it’s tactless. her brow furrows and she moves forward to help.  ❛    uh . it’s alright. just take your time.      ❜

normally, this doesn’t happen. the worst that might happen is he gets a little cross eyed, sees things that aren’t there or, in the most rare cases, feels like he’s falling down a pit towards something horrible. none of these feel like that. he’s out of his realm. his words rush out like people from a burning building. 

“hmm,” she begins, faux thoughtful, “the quiet kind, the kind where blood is spilled; but not by a knife—

             or, at least” she concedes with a rose and pearl grin, bread soaked in dark honey, cloudless, (charming but for the dusk-shadow she always tends to carry with her),

“not by your knife.”

she pauses; Eris has a flair for the dramatic, and she knows how to read a room well enough, but she gave up much of the act during the renaissance, “ugh, never mind,

I go where I’m needed; and you are definitely gonna need me where you are going.” 

there’s a tension that springs to life in his spine at the idea of blood spilling, feeling something protective & possessive roar to life in his rib cage before he forces it down, refuses to let the nature of what’s before him pluck at his strings so quickly. make it an effort, he remember his mother saying, make yourself too much work & eventually they’ll leave. he’ll play out her game. 

drums his fingers against the counter. flashes a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. turns away from her in the pause she leaves, breaking all of the tension she built around him. he starts taking inventory of whatever’s behind him, counting the desert roses he found a month ago & couldn’t bear parting with yet. doesn’t stop when she suggests he’ll need her. he doesn’t intend to leave antonic anytime soon.