[Here you are, on the roof of the headquarters again, and it's evident that the Forge has come on by accident because Priscilla isn't paying attention to it. Instead, she's hunched over a book, an old and rusty dagger in one hand... reading, and crying at the same time
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Despite the rare video response, he's not quite looking at the camera--maybe he didn't mean to hit that button? At any rate he's holding something like a journal, too.]
It's a sobering notion, certainly.
...Are you alright?
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I'm... I don't know.
I'm fine.
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...It belonged to someone important. [An educated guess, based on her reaction and his own. And leaving room to talk about it, if she wishes to.]
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[the sound of acknowledgement - admission. The closest she can manage to yes.]
[there's a noise - the sound of her shifting in place, and hugging that book.]
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I'm... okay. I mean, I think I'm okay.
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I don't know. It's better to do things than just sit around and think, right?
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Not comforting, no.
And supposedly the Scorched don't age. So it's not even necessary.
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[He isn't used to dealing with lady feelings, alright?]
We are born and grow and die. But we're never really gone.
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What do you mean... reborn? Are you talking about reincarnation?
I don't believe in reincarnation. Or that we're never gone. I believe that if we die, that's the end of our stories.
And there's nothing left at all. Except a corpse. And other people's memories.
That's what I believe.
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Whatever you saw, I am sorry that it's upset you.
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[dot.]
[dot.]
[dot.]
It's fine.
[Her voice is tense, and shaky.]
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Alright.
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Ah- oh. Um-!]
Are... are you all right? [Clarice: not the most subtle or comforting of characters!]
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I don't know.
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[awkward pause is awkward]
I... started carving a horse. I think I'm getting better, so- Well-
I hope... you're okay, I mean. Yes, that's what I mean.
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[She sniffles.]
...can I see it?
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