continued

Mordred settles Sagramore against the pillow, and sinks down on the edge of the bed. He's still bloody, speckled with bits of dead grass. "God."

It doesn't get any better after he gets out of the library.

Somewhere in the midst of the Mansion, one Michael Wilkinson -- Mordred only to his very close friends -- sits with his head in his hands. He's a little taller, a little older, but mostly recognizable to any of his erstwhile acquaintances.

The trouble with feather-borne crackplots, of course, is that feathers get everywhere, blown on the lightest breeze, even when they're not carried awhile in the pockets of unsuspecting children ( Read more... )

He's just walking, by the margin of the woods, quiet. He has on a disreputable jacket, with sufficient pockets for any interesting mosses he might come across, as a peace offering for Clar. Mostly he pays attention to the ground.

Anyone is welcome to accost him.

( Siblings )

Early in the morning he's leaning on the fence in front of the cottage, looking out across the fields. It's doubtful if he's slept -- his eyes have that particular bruised look; but he's too tired to be melancholy, at least. Brothers and snot-nosed kids are particularly welcome to bother him, but he'll probably be civil to anyone.

He, currently she, is sitting on the grassy slope overlooking the lake: dark hair tied roughly back, brows drawn together in exactly Clar's tight-lipped frown; sitting a little uncomfortably, because he's yet to acquire pants that fit properly.

[open post for everyone else! feel free to poke, tease, hit on, or otherwise bother him. :D]

Well, hasn't this been interesting.

Hi, people.

He's standing at the edge of the encircling woods, leaning sideways against a tree with his arms folded, still in the scuffed-up jeans and outsize, old-fashioned shirt he wears to work on or around the house; watching the Mansion from, as it were, a safe distance.

There is, for once in his life, no hint of a smile.

... O RLY?

Maybe the ones who are have better things to do with their time than prove themselves to a snot-nosed kid. Just a thought.

( rant )