Orb: 13th of Rebirth's Decline

[brosif]

Ghosts cling to the entryway and nothing ever remains unmarked. Unmade or undone, bone pressing on flesh. Fresh blueberries in autumn, with two moons hanging overhead in the afternoon sun. The scent of it stained her gums.

[Sif’s face is not in view. She speaks quietly, her words not intended for consumption. Her necklace has been tossed to the ground, and the only thing visible is her boots. They are caked in mud and underbrush. Her feet move about restlessly, motions as random and disconnected as her speech.]

We ever attempt substitution, until the original is opaque. Wax paper in a thunderstorm, dried out the next morning.

[ooc: Sif has Snow's visions! If you want her to read your character, give some details here.]

Comments

[brosif]

I don't. I'm not the kind. Dead things matter not.

Are you dead, Ser?

[shorterinperson]

You're starting to sound like that Snow woman. Have you been drugged?

[brosif]

Many times.

[Most of them years, centuries past. An occupational hazard. But time works differently, now. Discerning one day from the next seems impossible.]

[shorterinperson]

By Mithros, Sif, if you don't start making sense I will hold you down until you do.

[brosif]

None have ever managed that for long.

You're very quiet, Alanna. [Wandering through the village, even a voice was enough to draw Sif into the futures of those she passed -- places she wanted no part of.]

It is welcome.

[shorterinperson]

At least you'll make it a challenge for me.

I don't believe anyone has called me quiet in a very long time.

[brosif]

Known more for a roar?

[shorterinperson]

Yes, precisely.