[Alone out on the docks, a young teenage boy has been turning a bright pink orb in his hands distractedly, wondering just how to make it work. The voices he has heard from within its sphere have not been surprising to him, he is always surrounded by voices, and he pays little mind to them. Yet still, he assumes it to have some... purpose. He is
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[...how he looks is really not something Artemis spends time thinking about.]
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[That's... not so unusual, he supposes. He hears it, from time to time. He looks like a child, wandering on his own. He doesn't expect others to know from sight alone that he is has lived centuries, that he cannot starve to death, mostly eats for appearances, occasionally for pleasure.]
I am all right right, thank you.
[He offers a brief little smile as reassurance. It's an earnest expression, even if it's small.]
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You have one as well?
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