There's always the danger of possible threat, but they seem to currently be alone. Benji is searching the river to see if any patrols are on the water, but there is nothing, no lights nor movement. One of the boats tied off must be one of the Ferry's, or else she wouldn't have come here, wouldn't have. Invented.
"Black Mask?" she queries, mouth working out of sync with common sense for a moment, but then immediately; "No, I understand, don't explain."
Everyone has demons.
And it's superstition, in real life, to imagine they might step out of the shadows just because their names are whispered, but rather a real danger when it comes to this place. There's a thrum of anxiety from Benji, one that reverberates through the fabric of the reality she and Steph have made together, and it's then that things start to become undone. The ground beneath their feet seems to flow by beneath their trudging steps out of proportion with the pace they've set. Ice cold water floods up Stephanie's ankles as the shore is suddenly there and her feet sink into loose earth, and Benji is gone so the injured woman they held between them suddenly twists to pitch downwards, legs fishtailed out beneath her.
Stephanie is dragged with, a sort of unstoppable force bending her, hands caught in the gravity of this fallen victim. But instead of finding the woman, or even the shallow of the river shore, her palms land upon soft earth, freshly churned. There are trees around, now. A wooden cross erected nearby, with dead flowers bound to its centre from long ago, longer than the dirt beneath her was dug into. There are other patches like this, in the clearing, in various states of age, grass growing in.
The morning is brighter. Nicer. There is no trace of the city, here, east coast woodlands surrounding, but the smell of nearby river lingers. "This was the first place I thought," would be Benji. She's seated on a curve of tree that seems to grow twisted and horizontal from the ground, and possibly more aware of herself, shedding the pragmatic fabrics of wool, pocketed coats, general shabbiness, in exchange for a white dress that clings and drapes from her lanky frame, as long as her ankles. She's adorned otherwise with just a pendant that hangs off her neck, almost a religious icon.
She nervously digs her bare heels against the soft grass. "We were rescuing a phantom, I didn't-- think it was very fair for you. You were trying so hard."
no subject
"Black Mask?" she queries, mouth working out of sync with common sense for a moment, but then immediately; "No, I understand, don't explain."
Everyone has demons.
And it's superstition, in real life, to imagine they might step out of the shadows just because their names are whispered, but rather a real danger when it comes to this place. There's a thrum of anxiety from Benji, one that reverberates through the fabric of the reality she and Steph have made together, and it's then that things start to become undone. The ground beneath their feet seems to flow by beneath their trudging steps out of proportion with the pace they've set. Ice cold water floods up Stephanie's ankles as the shore is suddenly there and her feet sink into loose earth, and Benji is gone so the injured woman they held between them suddenly twists to pitch downwards, legs fishtailed out beneath her.
Stephanie is dragged with, a sort of unstoppable force bending her, hands caught in the gravity of this fallen victim. But instead of finding the woman, or even the shallow of the river shore, her palms land upon soft earth, freshly churned. There are trees around, now. A wooden cross erected nearby, with dead flowers bound to its centre from long ago, longer than the dirt beneath her was dug into. There are other patches like this, in the clearing, in various states of age, grass growing in.
The morning is brighter. Nicer. There is no trace of the city, here, east coast woodlands surrounding, but the smell of nearby river lingers. "This was the first place I thought," would be Benji. She's seated on a curve of tree that seems to grow twisted and horizontal from the ground, and possibly more aware of herself, shedding the pragmatic fabrics of wool, pocketed coats, general shabbiness, in exchange for a white dress that clings and drapes from her lanky frame, as long as her ankles. She's adorned otherwise with just a pendant that hangs off her neck, almost a religious icon.
She nervously digs her bare heels against the soft grass. "We were rescuing a phantom, I didn't-- think it was very fair for you. You were trying so hard."