Inbox - Fade Rift

[nonvenomous]

Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.

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[unshut]

If there is a sense that she might say something further, her long hand having gentled over his side and something less pleased lingering in the corner of her smiling mouth, Fitcher ultimately decides to keep it to herself. It's dismissed with another brief pat before she draws away to collect her things.

In short order, she's sorted stockings and various trouser buttons and the things between them. She doesn't bother with any of the shirt buttons, and her belt is slung jauntily over a shoulder rather than cinched about the waist. The hat is raised off his person, interior examined, and with a slanting look toward Silas's face is returned to protect the sun from getting an eye full. The pipe migrates back behind her ear.

If you change your mind—

No.

"If those Vints show up before you leave, tell them they've terrible timing," she says, oofing up off the ground to her feet. She dusts her backside with an exaggerated to do and bothers to tuck in only a single wild shirt tail. The toe of a boot pivots to softly graze his side.

"Be well, Silas."

And then Fitcher is off, first swatting through the long grass to fetch the red lacquered crossbow and its quiver before turning to take a path ostensibly very similar to the one he'd earlier cut.

[nonvenomous]

They’d agreed upon the conditions of this arrangement back in Hasmal.

So he doesn’t reach to stop her drawing away, raising up on the kickstand of one elbow instead to better follow her with his eyes while buttons and belts are sorted. That he can’t keep heartache from gripping hollow at his face is a failing of whatever creationary history humans have on this plane, and the fact that it in no way shape or form involved fucking snakes.

But it isn’t as naked as he is, hemmed up in grit and prickle and eventually a shift of his posture into a full sit, after she’s returned her hat to him.

Easy to miss, particularly while otherwise occupied. He has the space of his sit to compose himself in while she rustles about, with a snake spiraling lazy up his arm and a sunburn baking into the knots in his shoulders, the tousle of his scalp.

The nudge of her boot toe finds him self-contained and quiet, his chin tucked.

“Goodbye, Serafine.”

[unshut]

It wins a pause in her trajectory, that name. The angle of her shoulders pivots briefly back in his direction, and there on her face is produced some genuine flashing smile and a pleased laugh

—(as there are only ever two options forward in these matters, and that is to either find them very sad or to choose to be cheered by them; how rare it is to hear that name spoken aloud, and how charming that he should choose it)—

which she carries with her as she traipses off with a jingling of an undone belt buckle, and the idle sway of the full quiver against her thigh. She disappears from the overlook. She, and the red mule, and the total of her belongings disappear from their little camp well short of that allotted hour. Soon, Serafine Tokar will disappear from Ostwick too, leaving only indications of her brief stay there and little evidence as to her direction after. How easy it can be to slip back into a world where no one knows your habits, or your sentiments, or your name if you only let it.