Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2012-07-24 02:37 pm
flint_garou) wrote2012-07-24 02:37 pm
What you need to.
There is no wrong, there is no right …
24 July, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (39% full).
Flint's in the breakroom this afternoon, sitting at the dining room table with an 18x20" piece of paper in front of him, some pencils, and only one or two rough lines on the paper, but they form a tree, a very large tree. He wears longsleeves, and a sweatshirt, but there's the bulk of visible bandaging on his left wrist and arm, visible in the way his shirt falls. His focus is entirely on the piece of paper, and whatever soft humming that accompanies the artwork.
The tall, spindly form of Kevin enters the room. The ragabash somehow looks even more gaunt and spiderlike than normal, today, and the t-shirt he's wearing hangs from his shoulders like a tent even though it's not oversized. "Hey… Flint," he mutters as he heads for the coffee machine.
Humming ceases pretty abruptly as someone else enters the room, and Flint looks up, then down at the paper. More lines add to the tree, and there's a swing that hangs from the tree, sort of, until Flint sets the pencil down in frustration. "Damnit, can't remember more." The side of the paper gets something scribbled on it, words. "There is no wrong, there is no right…" Flint mutters, as he does so.
The scent of coffee fills the air as Kevin pours himself one. "Whatcha doing?" Kevin asks, looking over at Flint with a faint frown developing on his face as he overhears those muttered words.
"Dream," Flint responds, and points to the paper with his free hand that doesn't have the pencil in it. "Trying to remember before I forget, before words, dream." Not the most coherent answer that the adren's ever gotten from Flint, that's for certain, and the cliath seems a little preoccupied.
Devon finds himself in the breakroom doorway, fingers scratching the side of his neck. His gaze shifts from Kevin to Flint, lingering vagueness in recognition given to the pair.
Kevin seems to wake up a little, at that. He leaves his coffee by the machine to stride over to Flint and look at his drawing. "You too," is his response after giving it a stare. A taciturn comment, but his meaning is probably clear enough.
Flint nods. "Like I needed dreams, with. Everything else," Flint responds. He puts the pencil down and loops his hand around the opposite wrist, tightly for a moment. "Hi Devon."
"Me too," comes Devon's voice from the doorway. He hesitates, as if unsure if he should enter, still nervous around his tribesmates. A stranger amongst them. "A dream… I mean."
Kevin closes his eyes for a second as he looks at Devon, then opens them again. "Right. Over here. Let's compare notes. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, the third time is enemy action. As the saying goes."
Flint lets go of his wrist long enough to take a piece of paper out from underneath the drawing and cover it so it doesn't get smudged, pulling it so it doesn't take up all the table, then resumes. His hand is white-knuckled, and there's a moment of concentration. "There is no wrong, there is no right," Flint repeats, words very slow, very careful. "there is… only dark and bright. I… I did not come, I did not go… I cannot change but, only show? You cannot win, you cannot lose…" and then Flint stops, frustrated, hits the table. "Words," he says, with the tone of a curseword.
Devon takes a couple of steps into the breakroom, arms folding over his chest while Flint speaks. He draws close enough to look at the drawing, finding it covered however, then edges backward a few steps while looking toward the floor. "I just saw a woman in orange and black, protecting a baby in a Moses basket with a multi-colored blanket. —Woke up hearing buzzing, like wasps."
Kevin looks at Devon, then back at Flint. "Mine was pretty much like what Flint's, as far as the words go. No Moses basket in mine though. Swinging, back and forth, higher and higher… until my body started to do weird things…" He gets a faraway look in his eye for a couple of seconds.
Flint pauses a good moment longer after both of them have spoken, then continues. "But, but where to stop? That you can choose." He looks at the ceiling, and then turns around to stare at the memorial on the wall. "I heard buzzing, too. And during the swinging, it was weird. Lot of weird. And Nyan cat," Flint adds, a slightly derisive snort. "And feathers, and giggling and waterfall and if. I'd not, had other dreams, I'd. Think I was crazy, for. That one."
"No swinging in mine. Just… this lady." Devon offers a small shrug for an apology. "A lady and a baby. I don't know what it means though."
"Sometimes we get crazy dreams," Kevin says reassuringly. "All goes with the territory, as you might say. Often they have meanings… but I'm damned if I can puzzle out any from this one, so far."
Flint drums his fingers on the table. "I'm… I don't, want to call Mouse-rhya again, so. So soon. Already, did, but that was, before I… went back to sleep, had, the. The dream." Flint shakes his head back and forth. What follows is talking clearly to himself, something about blood and words but it's quiet, not quite incomprehensible.
Devon shakes his head slowly and edges backward another step. "Might've just been a dream… bad pizza or something." He doesn't sound too convinced, though, and follows it with another shrug.
"Might've," Kevin echoes, in a tone of voice which makes clear that he doesn't think so. Giving Flint another worried look, he turns back to Devon. "Any more news on your memory thing, Dev?"
Flint leans forward on the table, and picks up the pencil again, then uncovers the paper, carefully writing down the rest of the words. He's sitting a bit closer to the table now, shoulders hunched, defensive almost.
Devon looks at Kevin for a long moment, then shakes his head. "No idea what's happened. Feel like I need to turn on the television on Sunday to catch on of those hidden camera shows with how everyone claims to know me."
Kevin pulls a grim face. "It's a madhouse, here. A literal madhouse. And we're the inmates. Wibble, wibble. I feel as if I might just as well go and start sticking straws in my hair. Everything's coming to pieces."
The look that the galliard gets is a little more defensive, angled up at Kevin. "I'm fine," Flint insists. "'side from dreams, words, blood I'm fine." Except that he so clearly isn't.
Devon only offers another shrug and an apologetic look. His arms drop from his chest and hands find their way into his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly. "Sorry… Kevin."
"Oh," Kevin says wearily, "not your fault, not anyone's fault. Not yours either, Flint. But I wish you wouldn't say you're okay when you're not. What have you done to your arm?"
Flint looks down at his arm and tugs his sleeve down. "Nothing," Flint says, defensively. "It's not important, and it's not… not bad."
Devon's gaze flicks between Flint and Kevin, again. After a moment, he edges himself back out into the hall and makes a quiet turn for Nieve's apartment.
Kevin lets him go. Instead, his focus is purely on Flint. After a second's silence, he suddenly erupts in a fit of rage. "Don't LIE to me, Flint! When I want to know something I want an honest fucking answer! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR ARM?"
Flint flinches, and pulls his sleeve up to reveal a bandage over his wrist and a little further. "Yes Kevin-rhya," Flint says. "I… that. Knives, blood. Not bad, had the kit, was careful. Helps," he adds at the end, apologetic.
"Talk English," Kevin growls. "You're not a telegraph operator, you can use full sentences." He awaits Flint's further explanation with arms folded dangerously.
Flint swallows, and shakes his head. "I cut," Flint says. "I'm sorry. I'll… I'll shift eventually, but, not now. Right now, it helps, and I. I… need that. I'm sorry Kevin-rhya."
Kevin's anger seems to have drained away. So has some of the blood from his face; his compressed lips are a pale line barely darker than the rest of the surrounding skin. "All right," he says wearily. "Do what you need to do to get you through. Same as the rest of us. But we still need to figure out this dream. Dreams," he self-corrects, looking at the door through which Devon fled.
The cliath swallows again, and then nods. Flint traces over the outlines of the bandage for a long moment before pulling his sleeve down. "I'm careful, promise. I just… it makes everything slow down enough that words are, they, work more. And that." He shakes his head, goes back to quietly muttering to himself about blood, distracted it seems even from Kevin's presence.
Kevin looks at Flint silently for several more seconds. Then, shaking his head, he walks quietly back to the coffee machine to reclaim his drink.
Flint picks up the pencil and starts adding detail to the drawing of the tree and the swing, and the thing that's sitting on the swing appears, like some sort of crab thing with pincers and a feathered body and a long, long neck, but still vague. The muttering pauses, but doesn't stop.
Kevin scoops his coffee cup up in one hand and quietly takes his leave of the breakroom, worry still etched upon his face.
24 July, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (39% full).
Flint's in the breakroom this afternoon, sitting at the dining room table with an 18x20" piece of paper in front of him, some pencils, and only one or two rough lines on the paper, but they form a tree, a very large tree. He wears longsleeves, and a sweatshirt, but there's the bulk of visible bandaging on his left wrist and arm, visible in the way his shirt falls. His focus is entirely on the piece of paper, and whatever soft humming that accompanies the artwork.
The tall, spindly form of Kevin enters the room. The ragabash somehow looks even more gaunt and spiderlike than normal, today, and the t-shirt he's wearing hangs from his shoulders like a tent even though it's not oversized. "Hey… Flint," he mutters as he heads for the coffee machine.
Humming ceases pretty abruptly as someone else enters the room, and Flint looks up, then down at the paper. More lines add to the tree, and there's a swing that hangs from the tree, sort of, until Flint sets the pencil down in frustration. "Damnit, can't remember more." The side of the paper gets something scribbled on it, words. "There is no wrong, there is no right…" Flint mutters, as he does so.
The scent of coffee fills the air as Kevin pours himself one. "Whatcha doing?" Kevin asks, looking over at Flint with a faint frown developing on his face as he overhears those muttered words.
"Dream," Flint responds, and points to the paper with his free hand that doesn't have the pencil in it. "Trying to remember before I forget, before words, dream." Not the most coherent answer that the adren's ever gotten from Flint, that's for certain, and the cliath seems a little preoccupied.
Devon finds himself in the breakroom doorway, fingers scratching the side of his neck. His gaze shifts from Kevin to Flint, lingering vagueness in recognition given to the pair.
Kevin seems to wake up a little, at that. He leaves his coffee by the machine to stride over to Flint and look at his drawing. "You too," is his response after giving it a stare. A taciturn comment, but his meaning is probably clear enough.
Flint nods. "Like I needed dreams, with. Everything else," Flint responds. He puts the pencil down and loops his hand around the opposite wrist, tightly for a moment. "Hi Devon."
"Me too," comes Devon's voice from the doorway. He hesitates, as if unsure if he should enter, still nervous around his tribesmates. A stranger amongst them. "A dream… I mean."
Kevin closes his eyes for a second as he looks at Devon, then opens them again. "Right. Over here. Let's compare notes. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, the third time is enemy action. As the saying goes."
Flint lets go of his wrist long enough to take a piece of paper out from underneath the drawing and cover it so it doesn't get smudged, pulling it so it doesn't take up all the table, then resumes. His hand is white-knuckled, and there's a moment of concentration. "There is no wrong, there is no right," Flint repeats, words very slow, very careful. "there is… only dark and bright. I… I did not come, I did not go… I cannot change but, only show? You cannot win, you cannot lose…" and then Flint stops, frustrated, hits the table. "Words," he says, with the tone of a curseword.
Devon takes a couple of steps into the breakroom, arms folding over his chest while Flint speaks. He draws close enough to look at the drawing, finding it covered however, then edges backward a few steps while looking toward the floor. "I just saw a woman in orange and black, protecting a baby in a Moses basket with a multi-colored blanket. —Woke up hearing buzzing, like wasps."
Kevin looks at Devon, then back at Flint. "Mine was pretty much like what Flint's, as far as the words go. No Moses basket in mine though. Swinging, back and forth, higher and higher… until my body started to do weird things…" He gets a faraway look in his eye for a couple of seconds.
Flint pauses a good moment longer after both of them have spoken, then continues. "But, but where to stop? That you can choose." He looks at the ceiling, and then turns around to stare at the memorial on the wall. "I heard buzzing, too. And during the swinging, it was weird. Lot of weird. And Nyan cat," Flint adds, a slightly derisive snort. "And feathers, and giggling and waterfall and if. I'd not, had other dreams, I'd. Think I was crazy, for. That one."
"No swinging in mine. Just… this lady." Devon offers a small shrug for an apology. "A lady and a baby. I don't know what it means though."
"Sometimes we get crazy dreams," Kevin says reassuringly. "All goes with the territory, as you might say. Often they have meanings… but I'm damned if I can puzzle out any from this one, so far."
Flint drums his fingers on the table. "I'm… I don't, want to call Mouse-rhya again, so. So soon. Already, did, but that was, before I… went back to sleep, had, the. The dream." Flint shakes his head back and forth. What follows is talking clearly to himself, something about blood and words but it's quiet, not quite incomprehensible.
Devon shakes his head slowly and edges backward another step. "Might've just been a dream… bad pizza or something." He doesn't sound too convinced, though, and follows it with another shrug.
"Might've," Kevin echoes, in a tone of voice which makes clear that he doesn't think so. Giving Flint another worried look, he turns back to Devon. "Any more news on your memory thing, Dev?"
Flint leans forward on the table, and picks up the pencil again, then uncovers the paper, carefully writing down the rest of the words. He's sitting a bit closer to the table now, shoulders hunched, defensive almost.
Devon looks at Kevin for a long moment, then shakes his head. "No idea what's happened. Feel like I need to turn on the television on Sunday to catch on of those hidden camera shows with how everyone claims to know me."
Kevin pulls a grim face. "It's a madhouse, here. A literal madhouse. And we're the inmates. Wibble, wibble. I feel as if I might just as well go and start sticking straws in my hair. Everything's coming to pieces."
The look that the galliard gets is a little more defensive, angled up at Kevin. "I'm fine," Flint insists. "'side from dreams, words, blood I'm fine." Except that he so clearly isn't.
Devon only offers another shrug and an apologetic look. His arms drop from his chest and hands find their way into his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly. "Sorry… Kevin."
"Oh," Kevin says wearily, "not your fault, not anyone's fault. Not yours either, Flint. But I wish you wouldn't say you're okay when you're not. What have you done to your arm?"
Flint looks down at his arm and tugs his sleeve down. "Nothing," Flint says, defensively. "It's not important, and it's not… not bad."
Devon's gaze flicks between Flint and Kevin, again. After a moment, he edges himself back out into the hall and makes a quiet turn for Nieve's apartment.
Kevin lets him go. Instead, his focus is purely on Flint. After a second's silence, he suddenly erupts in a fit of rage. "Don't LIE to me, Flint! When I want to know something I want an honest fucking answer! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR ARM?"
Flint flinches, and pulls his sleeve up to reveal a bandage over his wrist and a little further. "Yes Kevin-rhya," Flint says. "I… that. Knives, blood. Not bad, had the kit, was careful. Helps," he adds at the end, apologetic.
"Talk English," Kevin growls. "You're not a telegraph operator, you can use full sentences." He awaits Flint's further explanation with arms folded dangerously.
Flint swallows, and shakes his head. "I cut," Flint says. "I'm sorry. I'll… I'll shift eventually, but, not now. Right now, it helps, and I. I… need that. I'm sorry Kevin-rhya."
Kevin's anger seems to have drained away. So has some of the blood from his face; his compressed lips are a pale line barely darker than the rest of the surrounding skin. "All right," he says wearily. "Do what you need to do to get you through. Same as the rest of us. But we still need to figure out this dream. Dreams," he self-corrects, looking at the door through which Devon fled.
The cliath swallows again, and then nods. Flint traces over the outlines of the bandage for a long moment before pulling his sleeve down. "I'm careful, promise. I just… it makes everything slow down enough that words are, they, work more. And that." He shakes his head, goes back to quietly muttering to himself about blood, distracted it seems even from Kevin's presence.
Kevin looks at Flint silently for several more seconds. Then, shaking his head, he walks quietly back to the coffee machine to reclaim his drink.
Flint picks up the pencil and starts adding detail to the drawing of the tree and the swing, and the thing that's sitting on the swing appears, like some sort of crab thing with pincers and a feathered body and a long, long neck, but still vague. The muttering pauses, but doesn't stop.
Kevin scoops his coffee cup up in one hand and quietly takes his leave of the breakroom, worry still etched upon his face.