The Bird Watcher (Silhouette) Oct 29, 2014 17:01:26 GMT -6
Post by Deleted on Oct 29, 2014 17:01:26 GMT -6
|Silhouette let out a harsh, helpless breath as the light caught on. That changeling... she knew it hadn't been some trick of the light. She was no stranger to hallucination, nor was she shocked anymore by the unreality of this dreaming realm, the way it twisted thoughts into being or feelings into forces. What troubled her now was that Pop had no reaction, and in fact, seemed to think nothing whatsoever was amiss.|
She didn't believe for a moment that this was what Pop's household ordinarily looked like. From the claw marks to the broken glass to the stains in the floorboards... Silhouette knew a crime scene when she saw one. It wasn't difficult to piece together from the pattern of the stains and the vision a moment ago exactly what had happened.
This was the place. As sure as the moon was high, this was the place.
Silhouette very intentionally slowed her breathing, adopting a cool, calculating process of thought. A few possibilities were present. One, that the dream had tricked her, and what Silhouette saw was simply not what Pop did. In which case it would be a simple matter to try and correct the discrepancy. Two, that this was, as in much dream language, another representation of a deeper issue in Pop's psyche; that she did not feel safe in her home any longer, and had deeply tried to convince herself otherwise. In which case more drastic measures might be required.
Third... Sil felt an unpleasant chill at the prospect of the third option, so she decided to try and disprove that one first. She gave another cursory glance around them. The firelight was, for once, the least unnerving thing about the room.
"Alright," she said, voice slowly uncoiling from its momentary spike of tension. A note of caution still held, though. "A few measures have to be taken, it seems. First, I need to know your birth date, your current happiest memory, and your favorite beverage. Non-alcoholic, that is."
She stepped forward a little, keeping Pop and the windows near to her in her vision. If this was what she thought it was... it was salvageable. But it was a delicate thing, and she needed to treat it as such. It took fine threads to heal a grisly scar.
"In addition," she said softly, almost secretive. "Can you tell me the color of your sofa? The one you have right now. And do you own any rugs?"