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Amariah appears in the Belltower, throws herself into a chair, and tries to read postcards, but her eyes won't focus on them. She tries the Bellbook, and scarcely has better luck, although her eyes do catch on a certain word.
"Jane."
"Yep?"
"I want to talk to Aether."
"I'll let her know!"
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dark_light
thaumobabble
"You have some - themes to you, nothing that unusual to have in common as templates go - daemons, coin colors, obviously appearance. None of you are standing out as the template instance at all. I think you might be - almost a subtype? You are a kind of person, the specific kind of that kind of person that appears for Bell/Joker pairings' firstborns. There might be a theme to the ingot powers but I can't tell until I see more of them, I think. I think you're going to continue to usually be female as more of you appear but it's not a guarantee the way it is with - Matildas, say, I don't think we'll ever see a boy Matilda."
telesonorous
"Thanks," says Helen, smiling.
(And she glances at Amariah and looks... maybe worried. Worried might be the word.)
(And she glances at Amariah and looks... maybe worried. Worried might be the word.)
dark_light
"Yeah. I'm - not in a position to be really comforting, just yet. I think I need to finish reading the postcards first, minimum. If only I'll do - then nothing doing. If he wants somejoker to show up and be soothing, Jane's up, she can fetch him anybody who'll come. Although I guess the ones who have daemons already are busy so they'd need the star."
dark_light
"Now, you mean?" Path utters a considering hoot. "Yeah. I guess."
She fishes around in her bag for the next one.
She fishes around in her bag for the next one.
The postcards have stopped being postcards, at least primarily; now they're just about anything you could write on.
After a spate of doodled owls - it looks like he went through an entire pad of hotel stationery - the next thing she pulls out of the bag is a crumpled movie poster with her name misspelled in the subtitle and HA FUCKING HA scrawled across it in red Sharpie.
After a spate of doodled owls - it looks like he went through an entire pad of hotel stationery - the next thing she pulls out of the bag is a crumpled movie poster with her name misspelled in the subtitle and HA FUCKING HA scrawled across it in red Sharpie.
telesonorous
Helen peers at it.
"Wow, that came out waaaaaay before I was born. They've gotten a little better. Well, they figured out how to spell your name, at least."
"Wow, that came out waaaaaay before I was born. They've gotten a little better. Well, they figured out how to spell your name, at least."
dark_light
"Wow. Wow this is mortifying." She rolls up the poster, stuffs it back into the magic bag, and grabs the next thing.
A restaurant receipt - I love you.
A hotel business card - I miss you so much.
A postcard from Vancouver - Just had the most amazing thunderstorm.
A scrap of lined paper - Shitty morning, better afternoon. ♥
A postcard from Detroit - I don't know whether I'm writing these to you or to me.
A hotel business card - I miss you so much.
A postcard from Vancouver - Just had the most amazing thunderstorm.
A scrap of lined paper - Shitty morning, better afternoon. ♥
A postcard from Detroit - I don't know whether I'm writing these to you or to me.
More of the same - snippets of his life, the constant refrain of I love you, I miss you.
After a while, a letter, looking somewhat the worse for wear - some of these things bear hints of how they were destroyed, and this one was apparently cried on profusely and then burned.
After a while, a letter, looking somewhat the worse for wear - some of these things bear hints of how they were destroyed, and this one was apparently cried on profusely and then burned.
dark_light
This letter is crushed a little in her hand and pressed to her lips, not quite in a kiss, and then she puts it away and moves on.
The tone of the postcards changes a little, after the letter; fewer of them just say 'I miss you', and the rest are somewhat happier.
There are still a lot of them.
And as the years of one-sided correspondence wear by, the 'I miss you's start creeping back in.
One postcard, from Quebec City, says: Augustine died. I didn't even know. Talked to her last night and she says she's not coming back. Fuck.
Subsequent postcards take on a darker tone. He's not happy; he misses her. There are moments of joy, and he tells her about most of them, but there's a melancholy edge to it even when he's talking about the amazing waffles he had this morning or how gorgeous the Aurora is from the air.
There are still a lot of them.
And as the years of one-sided correspondence wear by, the 'I miss you's start creeping back in.
One postcard, from Quebec City, says: Augustine died. I didn't even know. Talked to her last night and she says she's not coming back. Fuck.
Subsequent postcards take on a darker tone. He's not happy; he misses her. There are moments of joy, and he tells her about most of them, but there's a melancholy edge to it even when he's talking about the amazing waffles he had this morning or how gorgeous the Aurora is from the air.