Echo may or may not notice that the walls seem even closer now than they did a minute ago, tables and chairs huddling together as if conspiring against her.
It takes a while to notice. The size and shape of Milliways is hard to determine at the best of times.
But it's slowly becoming harder to navigate. Every time she turns, there's something in her way, blocking her, keeping her from searching where she wants to search.
Balthazar continues his stroll, his lazy arc, watching Echo intently all the while. He could keep this up for hours, really.
Though it might behoove him not to offend his host. Hosts? Whoever runs this place. He's never really cared enough to find out. This would normally be where he would tighten the noose, push his poor little victim to whatever final excess of vice he could entice them to--
She backs up the way she came; if Balthazar hadn't moved, she'd be in danger of running into him again.
When she reaches the center of what she's perceiving as clear space, she stops, wrapping her arms around herself, and sniffles. One hand makes a half-hearted, unconscious move towards her
(shoulder to the wheel)
shoulder, but drops again.
"Want to go home," she whispers, and sniffles again.
Mmmm. There we go. Balthazar watches her with a small smile, lips slightly parted-- if only they could bottle that.
Shame, really.
"You won't," he whispers, a whisper that may not sound so much like him as it does like a voice at the back of the mind-- that faint, niggling, treacherous voice that always seems to say whatever you don't want to be true.
"You won't," the same whisper assures her, all tender crooning and cold promise.
Balthazar's an old hand at this game. He knows when the damage is done.
So Echo might not notice when the walls expand-- not comfortably, not by a long shot, but to their (approximate) real dimensions-- and the claustrophobic terror that isn't entirely hers slackens.
Flip.
Flip.
In the shadows of the bar, well out of Echo's perception, Balthazar watches her with a slight, predatory smile.
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[ooc: Grabbing lunch, bbiab!]
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It probably isn't.
Echo may or may not notice that the walls seem even closer now than they did a minute ago, tables and chairs huddling together as if conspiring against her.
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But it's slowly becoming harder to navigate. Every time she turns, there's something in her way, blocking her, keeping her from searching where she wants to search.
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The rules say no demons and no angels walk the earth. No blights, no miracles, no possessions.
They're a little hazier when it comes to influence.
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Ow.
Breathing harder and rubbing a bruised hip, she tries to back up and runs into another table.
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(Well. "Lives" may not be exactly the term.)
Still invisible, he rises from his seat and starts to pace, tracing a slow, lopsided semicircle around Echo as she moves.
She may feel a little more watched-- a little more hemmed in than before.
Just a bit.
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(you need to stop talking now and start running)
hunted.
Swallowing, she looks around, spots an apparently open path, and starts forward -- towards Balthazar.
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Intuitive, or just lucky? It's not always easy to tell.
He stands his ground and lets her approach.
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At the last moment, she halts, confused, then swerves around him.
After about five steps, the path that looked clear a moment ago is blocked by a chair.
Can chairs look menacing? Because Echo feels menaced.
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Maybe not, then. (But then again ...)
Balthazar continues his stroll, his lazy arc, watching Echo intently all the while. He could keep this up for hours, really.
Though it might behoove him not to offend his host. Hosts? Whoever runs this place. He's never really cared enough to find out. This would normally be where he would tighten the noose, push his poor little victim to whatever final excess of vice he could entice them to--
But he's not out to finish Echo.
Not tonight.
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When she reaches the center of what she's perceiving as clear space, she stops, wrapping her arms around herself, and sniffles. One hand makes a half-hearted, unconscious move towards her
(shoulder to the wheel)
shoulder, but drops again.
"Want to go home," she whispers, and sniffles again.
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Shame, really.
"You won't," he whispers, a whisper that may not sound so much like him as it does like a voice at the back of the mind-- that faint, niggling, treacherous voice that always seems to say whatever you don't want to be true.
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Balthazar's an old hand at this game. He knows when the damage is done.
So Echo might not notice when the walls expand-- not comfortably, not by a long shot, but to their (approximate) real dimensions-- and the claustrophobic terror that isn't entirely hers slackens.
That's what he's hoping, anyway.
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She'll notice eventually. Just . . . not yet.
Even without the claustrophobia, the overwhelming sense that everything here is wrong remains.
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