(Untitled)

[777thdegree]

(OOM: It has been ten years.

To the day.

And here's something the fable left out:

That urn also counts to the second.The front door is flung open and someone enters at a near run - someone with a leather trenchcoat and entirely too much jewelry and a thing for classy leather shoes

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[lifeisacatch]

"It is always cats and tongues here, it seems."

The white-haired woman in maroon leather appears amused, at the least.

"Perhaps they've gotten to your legs too. That would be something to see!"

[777thdegree]

He blinks at her, shakes his head, and blinks again.

"Are people often fooled by that?" He finally asks, because he honestly does forget, sometimes, what normal humans see.

[lifeisacatch]

Flemeth's laugh is deep and rough, resonating far down in her chest.

"Are people easily fooled, he asks. That is the sound of one who has not met many people!"

To be fair, it works better when she's the crazy old woman who lives in a swamp.

But this way is funnier.

[777thdegree]

He was trained by a crazy old man who lived in a forest, before (and sometimes, regrettably, while) becoming the king's sorcerer. The laughter is familiar.

"Say rather someone who still has an open mind, madam." His tone is a few degrees more respectful, if only in that crazy old man's memory.

[sunbaked_baker]

While he's standing by the door, Balthazar may notice familiar scents coming from the kitchen.

Dusty tome open behind her, Rae is perched on the edge of the table in the kitchen, gently moving her hand to keep containers of dried rosemary, sage, thyme and parsley quietly turning about one another in mid-air. Warm smells of cinnamon and sugar and dough are coming from the oven, while a tray of Sunshine's Eschatology cools on a wire rack by the window.

[777thdegree]

He's starving. He's been in an urn for ten years, and during those ten years, alternately keeping track of and fending off Maxim Horvath.

It's a miracle he isn't drooling as he pauses in the doorway, watching her.

[sunbaked_baker]

The spices hover, turning and spinning and somersaulting around one another in the air. Every so often, Rae changes their direction - how about rotating vertically, towards her? Or shuffling among themselves while turning end-over-end? She's concentrating on keeping the transitions smooth, not letting her control on the objects falter. With her focus elsewhere, and with the dull roar of the ovens' vents, she doesn't hear Balthazar in the doorway behind her.

[777thdegree]

"Are one of those for me?" He finally asks, eying the baked treats covetously.

Actually, he's not just eying one treat. He's pretty sure he could put away a tray of them with very little trouble.

Ten years. Think about it.