TO: EVERYONE.

[bloomly]

( it's not like she means to, and certainly not like she wants to broadcast her thoughts, in the neat, curling cursive that it comes in, to people that she doesn't even know, in a place where she's fairly certain she's all alone. sure, there had been the sudden intrusion before, of words splashed on her bedsheets and the wooden walls where she sleeps--but she had figured that must have been some sort of hallucination, perhaps even magic, or worse, some sort of curse; she doesn't know anything about this place except what those here, in solvunn, have told her, and what's a halloween anyway? some sort of other curse?

or is this something different? it wouldn't be the first time the planet said things to her that she didn't understand, a cacophony of voices scrambled together: some happy, others upset, some desperate to be lost to the lifestream entirely. but this isn't gaia, and this isn't her flower garden--the cries of the planet don't reach her here, or do they? is that the meaning of all those words before?

it's late at night when her eyes close: maybe if she thinks hard enough, long enough, she can find that pull, the tug of the lifestream to draw her thoughts together with the planet beneath her. maybe she can find a way out of here. maybe there are a lot of 'maybe's. )


𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓂𝑒?

( the text, all loopy and warm and rounded, pops up with no discretion for who it's sent to, or why: it's just there, to everyone open to it, and repeats patiently if ignored. then, another: )

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝐼 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅?

( and, of course, there's a neat little signature at the bottom of every message: )

- 𝒜𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒽

Comments

[bloomly]

𝐼𝓉'𝓈 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝓀𝒶𝓎! 𝐼 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒.

( it's easy for her to get swept away in that kind of feeling: wanting to reassure someone, not wanting them--whoever they are--to get swept up in the lonely feelings that can take over in the dark of the night in a strange place.

she's felt those, before. )

𝐼 𝑔𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓎, 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒.

𝐼'𝓂 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓁𝓎. 𝐼'𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝒸𝓀 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒, 𝓉𝑜𝑜.

[rinwell]

No, I'm not.

[ Did she mean to send that? Perhaps, tiredness. Or perhaps, a pang of homesickness, finally kicking in thanks to this conversation. A tightness seizes in her chest. ]

I'm not a good person at all. My friends are.. They're the good people. They're trying to save everyone, and I..

I'm just stuck here. Without them.

[ And I miss them.

Even if it isn't said out loud, written between them, the feeling keens beneath those words that she hadn't intended to share. ]

[bloomly]

( and she feels it, in those words: that soft pang of sadness, the kind that makes her want to reach in and sweep it all away. )

𝒲𝒽𝓎 𝒹𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃'𝓉 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃?

𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒, 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓉.