canon is STOKER. uh, be warned and stuff.

[sandpile]

—Shall we?

Comments

[6s]

[ Lightly: ] Headed somewhere?

[sandpile]

Heaven. Hell. The afterlife.

[ Mildly: ]

Aren't we all just— travelling a path?

[ofage]

[ There could be words; there could be so many words. Instead, she chooses one. Carefully, quietly. Her head is quirked ever so slightly to the side. ] Why?

[sandpile]

[ And in return (just as bare, just as heavy, just as carefully chosen): ]

Why not?

[ofage]

[ Bright, mirroring eyes make the decision to remain unblinking as they watch the presence of her uncle. ]

You could be anyone — anywhere.

[wale]

How long will this take?

[sandpile]

Impatient?

[wale]

More curious than anything, really. Did I catch your name—?

[sandpile]

No.

[ His hands are in the pockets of his slacks. (He smiles, then.) ]

You didn't.

[wale]

I thought men were supposed to introduce themselves first. [ She speaks quietly, her ts clicking like finger taps. Every word sounds a little bemused, like everything has a meaning she can't quite parse through. ]

[sandpile]

Charlie. Stoker. [ He extends a hand, fingers straight, palm relaxed; it comes out of his pocket like a magician pulls flowers. ]

A pleasure.

[wale]

Ciela Schuster, and the pleasure's mine, sir. [ She shakes hands like she holds the necks of dead fowl before she cuts the heads off, or like the way she holds a trauma patient's hand during transport. She shakes hands like she's trying to find life in someone else, but forgot how to. ] Can I call you that, or is that too weird?

[sandpile]

[ Pleasantly: ]

Just Charlie will do fine.

[wale]

Charlie. Does that make you a Charles or a Carlton? My brother never lets me call him Matt, never calls anyone by a diminutive.

[intimo]

[It takes considerable effort for India to peer down her nose at her uncle, assessing him, though she manages it nonetheless.]

My mother... [She utters as a poor excuse, acting as if she's much cared for the woman before.]