Under a sky, no one sees Waiting Watching it happening

[onlyeverdoubted]

WHO: Bodhi
WHERE: Around town, the inn
WHEN: Forward-dated to March 18
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: None, will update
STATUS: Open

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The storms didn't bother him a bit--he had far more on his mind when he first arrived, and wild weather has always been a bit of a specialty of his. The odd little flickers of light excited his curiosity, but he's known planets with much odder bits of phenomena. The soft, wet cold is just as unusual by his standards. Fog is kind of fun. Not, it turns out, the best thing to wander into alone, not when he can't trust his memory to race away to unsafe places, when shifting shapes and unpredictable dimness can so easily evoke... Well, he learns not to stay too far after the first time out.

Aside from that, he doesn't give the little lights or insects or weather much thought. He has Jyn's crisis to deal with, after all, and while he has yet to really find his niche, he's always intent on staying busy, contributing enough with odd jobs to justify the time he spends meandering physically and mentally. He doesn't try to avoid the little lights.

He notices the fever itself. He was a sickly kid, and he's not particularly sturdy now, but what he lacks in immune system, he makes up for in resilience. He moves a little more slowly, takes a few more breaks, but he keeps going. The other symptoms come on more slowly, and these, Bodhi doesn't notice. He's always sure he's doing everything wrong and that if anyone knew the truth they'd hate him. He glances to the side too quickly to see shifting shadows that couldn't be there more often than he'd like to admit. It's a little bit of a bad day, but he's not feeling well. It'll work itself out.

There are slips he doesn't usually make, though, or not without checking carefully to see if anyone's around. Talking to himself--a low, constant murmur, hard to make out any individual pieces. Drumming his fingers in complicated patterns against each other and whatever satisfying surface is nearby (actually, he's done that all his life, but if people notice they sometimes ask, and he gets flustered by having no answer). Long moments that, left uninterrupted, stretch on and on of just being... absent. It's so easy to slip back under, let bor gullet have him. Keeping his head together is the hard part.

There's nowhere he really does belong, and he winds up in the trees and the fog over and over again, but once in a while he gets lost near the inn, his usual base of operations.

Comments

[learned_to_die]

It's the lure of the fog that draws Ned out into the town. He's been mostly lurking at the Inn, no official chambers he's yet claimed, attempting to make the acquaintance of those in the town, knowing that a land is only as good as its people. He's met a handful of the other villagers - most notably his children (with whom he'd ideally spend the vast majority of his time, though he's been hesitant to thrust his presence on them for fear of hovering too much; he respects the fact, despite the unbearable urge to somehow latch onto them and never let go, that they're adults now. Forever his children, but grown and with their own lives, however strange they might be in this .. place) - but otherwise, he's spent his time exploring every nook and cranny of the area. He'd originally been searching for the Lord or Lady of the stead, thinking that perhaps he'd been rude - simply arriving, failing to make an introduction - but it'd been explained to him that no such person existed here.

It was simply .. democratic.

It reminded him of what lie north of the Wall, the Free Folk - derogatorily the Wildlings, which Ned had the nasty habit of using to refer to them. He needed to correct that, eventually. But they'd had a system a bit like this, he thinks, based on the limited interactions he'd had. Never answering to the Crown or the Realm - having a leader, but chosen by the people and not given the title through blood or marriage. All together strange and foreign to Ned, a man grown up with Lords, and Princes, and Kings.

He's been spending a good chunk of time loitering around the blacksmith, poking around a bit at what equipment is there (not much) and what could possibly be forged (even less). Not that he's got even the inkling of a smith's knowledge, but - it could prove to be useful. It's at least something familiar, something close enough to home to make him temporarily release the memory, a leaf on the breeze.

He thinks to perhaps return to the inn, fill his belly with something there. As he draws closer, he sees a rather aimless shadow floating around - then, with each step further, hears more and more what sounds like muttering. He wonders if it's a strange insect or creature nearby until he realizes it's the figure - a man. A very frail, wisp of a thing. He looks quite agitated, concerned, worried - yet somehow vacant. He'd seen men lose their minds before, sometimes from war, sometimes from death of loved ones, sometimes from isolation. Man's mind is fickle, he knows, and he wonders what might've happened to this one to make its owner act so erratically.

When he's close enough, he decides to call out.

"Are you lost?"

[scepterschild]

Wanda found this new world strange. If it wasn't for those she knew she would have hated it. She spent a great deal of time in her room and then helping Clint in whatever task he'd given himself that day. She had a lot on her mind and she had to remind herself not to get caught up in her own head.

This sent her pacing about the small town, the green hue of her gaze flicking around her as she took in every detail. The fog made her tense and she tried to reach out and sense those around her. Her powers were weaker than before and she couldn't keep it up for long.

The fireflies made her weary. She didn't know what was happening but at this point she had come to the conclusion that they were most likely the cause of the rampant fevers and mishaps. Whenever she saw that familiar flicker she raised the red mist from her hand, surrounding the firefly and then suffocating it until it fell to the ground.

A shadow caught her attention and she turned, a red mist twisting around her fingers as her eyes narrowed. "Who's there?" She called out, her accent thick.

[3ofswords]

Self-imposed exile or no, Kira hasn't stopped checking Ren's grave. It's an easy enough walk from their camp in the southwest section of the forest, and few enough people make the trip out to it that he doesn't worry about meeting anyone, having to explain an absence, or being convinced to come back yet.

It's only been a few days, and the weather's been atrocious, but it's been nice. His walks in the forest have been the only real time he's ever been alone, maybe in all his life, and he cherishes that despite the very present dangers in the fog.

At this hour of morning, the sun is high enough to cut the fog in the open field, and he can see a figure some distance from the shelter of Ren's tree. If the color of his clothes hadn't been clue enough, Kira can recall the fidgeting silhouette, the incomplete and shifting sense of the man that he'd spent a couple of nights with when he arrived. It's the man Casey had invited to use their second bed, and Kira searches his memory for his name.

"Bodhi," he calls, voice lifting with the guess of it. Today he's wearing the bright red and black flannel from his latest mysterious gift-box, and it marks him clearly for the man's sight as he approaches, a hand gently raised in greeting. He doesn't get within an arm's length immediately, wary of a reaction like Jyn's, but nothing in the man's posture seems threatening. If anything-- "Are you alright, out here?"

[candor1]

Cassian sticks to his plan, locking himself into efficiency mode (when he all he wants to do is tear the planet apart with his bare hands). He keeps the running mantra in his mind. Can't just find her. Help her. A reminder that it won't be enough unless he can stay calm and not incapacitated and… what and how is he going to…? When the thoughts swirl and panic encroaches, he translates into Yaval, Varadian, Jeluca, one of Khriou's languages, Narede's, the same over and again. Ayudarla. Saeadaha. Usakee madad karo. Bāngzhù tā. Voítheia. Help her. Help her.

He's just entered phase two. Leaving the hospital with freshly seen to shoulder, seeking more information from anyone and everyone. He's just thought of Bodhi when he turns a corner and nearly smashes straight into him.

"Bodhi," Cassian exclaimed, creeped-out at the coincidence and in apology at once, catching both of their balances by grabbing Bodhi's arm. "I'm glad to see you."

[repressings]

Bodhi is fascinating.

Since their first conversation, with Credence being too hasty to get answers out of someone--space, actual space!--he hadn't realized it might be draining for the other. He'd distanced himself after that, as he's wont to to. Not unfriendly, but there hasn't been any inn conversations with Credence blurting out that he can't quite understand that the sun is also a star, and that each star are suns, and etcetera.

Credence isn't a fool, no, but this hadn't been in his adoptive mother's teachings. Witches and their evilness, that had taken it's place. Study the bible, never stray from being anything other than the perfect son. And even then, that would come crashing down on him at a near nightly basis, when his mother had calmly told him to hand over his belt.

This is different. Credence can be himself in the village, even if he's still trying to figure out who that is. Bodhi is someone he thinks about often, perhaps too often--because Bodhi is soft and charming and tries. He tries harder than anyone he knows.

Now, though, Bodhi is strumming his fingers on any available surface. It's a pleasant rhythm, a tap-tap-tap, and Credence nearly smiles as he passes him. It's a shame he can't actually smile, now.

"Is that a song?" he asks carefully. He doesn't mind that the other is drumming, only curious. He doesn't know Bodhi at all; dosn't realize he could be in danger. Both of them hide it so very well.