Harth goes outside a fair bit, these days. Not exactly all the time, but he likes the open air, and making a dash for the bar door after waiting just a little too long for the sun to come up adds a touch of excitement to what might otherwise be a bit of a routine existence.
Thus: Harth. Running up to keep pace alongside his sister, or try, with a grin.
Harth grins. "That's better. Oh, where Alanna and Thom're from? That's jake." He likes the other pair of twins, even if Alanna is regretfully virtuous.
At the edge of the woods stands a statue - perhaps a memorial put up for the lost land of Dreaming, or just some stonemason's idle play.
Either way, the angel with her bowed head and carefully coiffed hair and delicate hands over her face doesn't look like it belongs there. Perhaps in a graveyard, over some long-dead filthy rich patriarch, but not on the edge of the woods on a frosty December morning.
Mel finally draws to a halt near the statue, bearly registering it, really. Lots of things look out of place around here: she doesn't know where it should be.
"What have you been doing in that greenhouse of yours?" She asks Harth directly.
Harth goes outside a fair bit, these days. Not exactly all the time, but he likes the open air, and making a dash for the bar door after waiting just a little too long for the sun to come up adds a touch of excitement to what might otherwise be a bit of a routine existence.
Thus: Harth. Running up to keep pace alongside his sister, or try, with a grin.
"Mornin', Mel!"
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"Morning, brat. How's the after-un-life?"
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"Eh," he says eloquently. "Same old. I'm tentacle-farming these days. Yours?"
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"Been killing a lot of your old friends. And going horseback riding.
"...tentacle?"
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"And yes. They kinda multiply if you try'n prune 'em. But I may be jealous of the horseback riding. Where'd you do that?"
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"Tentacle?"
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"Tentacle plants," he clarifies.
Sort of.
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Either way, the angel with her bowed head and carefully coiffed hair and delicate hands over her face doesn't look like it belongs there. Perhaps in a graveyard, over some long-dead filthy rich patriarch, but not on the edge of the woods on a frosty December morning.
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"What have you been doing in that greenhouse of yours?" She asks Harth directly.
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"What did you expect, dark rituals?"
Bar doesn't so much give out cups carved from human skulls.
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