|Abe|| What's the matter you?
A simple, loaded question. Everyone that comes in here gets it from the poor bastards behind the desk. In Abe's case, the shorter question was, "What ain't?"
So whil other doctors handled other patients, Abe was patient. As much as he could be after all. It had taken him a good long while to accept that what was wrong with him, what was -really- wrong with him couldn't be drank or slept away. Someone else in his bed didn't make the nightmares stop. It just meant that when he woke up, heart pounding against the back of his ribs, sweat running cold and soaking his bed sheets, a waking scream echoing in his ears... someone else was there to witness it. Some women found tortured men interesting, others didn't have time for the baggage.
Exposition aside, this is where we found Scribe McDonald, tired, pale. He slimped in one of the seats in what passed for the waiting room, awake and aware but bleary all the same.
|Samhain|| Tired and pale.
It might be an indication of his physical state, were it not for the fact that the diminutive, white-eyed woman that stood near the desk staring soundlessly toward his direction were not, in fact, blind. His own form is mirrored back at him should he manage to meet her gaze, as distorted there as it would be in his nightmares; warped by the wet of her eyes, twisted and turned at a skewed angle that left it about as comforting as a horror story come to realization of reality.
He's been sitting there a while...
Her face is painted in sugarskull, the corners of her mouth naturally quirked in some haphazard 'smile' that does nothing to lighten her features from their tortured norm.
If anyone were going to understand...
"I can help you..." It's breathless, that whispered statement.
"If you would let me." She concludes in the same, still unblinking, her lace-gloved hands clasped before her, her stance a strange sort of respectable. She makes an attempt at smiling, an awkward sort of thing with its own sort of charm -- it is genuine, but out of place.
"I can feel your pain," She offers still, one of her hands releasing the other to offer it toward him timidly, though she can only surmise the location. "You needn't suffer in silence."
|Abe|| It wasn't comforting, not at all. There wasn't even that stiff regard of a doctor or a surgeon.
Maybe he had dozed off, maybe his mind wandered, either way, he wasn't entirely aware of the girl, (for even at his most generous, he could not rightly call her a woman) not until she spoke. His eyes focused and he began to speak, voice made warm by the corners of his mouth pulling upwards into a smile, "That's-" as much as he managed to say, his voice halting, his kit shifting gently, the chair's cracked, ripped, vinyl skin creaking quietly. His scrutiny might have a weight as he shifted in his seat, placing a hand on the arm rest, pulling himself upright. He glanced, left and then right to study for curious eyes... What eyes there were, were on her and not him. Who could blame them. she was a sight.
She continued and he managed to be just north of agog. "That's.. are you...?" half-started words that falter and fall. He collects himself and considers her... This could be a trap, a trick. If she was the bait, what was the hook? Curiosity played against him and...
His hand was warm, his grip firm. There wasn't that expected level of roughness to them. "Please..." if it wasn't a trick however, if she could help him, could make it stop... He rose with a faint rustle of the detritus that everyone seems to wear and carry in this wasteland. Bullets, supplies, a gun... Wait.. where was her...? Well, maybe not a gun but not even a knife?!
|Samhain|| Utterly unarmed.
Small and frail.
Still, she smiles at him; a placid sort of affair, the pleasantry lost to the haunted quality of her eyes. Every time she blinks, his reflection is twisted anew -- the dark of his frame against the pearlescent pale seeming to shift from one side to the other, added by the pitch shadows that're painted about her sockets. Samhain just stands there are he tries to get out his words, waiting until he's all but finished, expectant as her hand is outstretched for his.
Her hands, or at the very least the fingertips that poke from the frayed edges of her gloves, are smooth like porcelain and as cold as the clammy hand of death itself as her fingers coil about his hand in a gentle grip, utterly devoid of the tension strength and health might bring.
She turns to walk toward one of the examination rooms, her footfalls eerily silent and gait so supremely smooth that she nearly floats in her guiding, were it not for the idle side to side sway that walking insists.
"Am I...?" She allows the question in repetition to linger only a moment, "Alright? Sure?" She asks questions for him. Questions that everyone asks her. Her smile fades just a little bit.
She had hoped if she'd offered help, someone wouldn't ask.
She releases his hand as they approach one of the rooms, her eyes flickering shut as her fabric rustles forward in the sudden halting, her paled lips moving as she whispers to herself, '...fifteen, sixteen...'. Her hand moves across the wall, fingers splaying as she searches for a frame, finding it easily enough before it scouts for the knob to turn it and open it with a gentle push. Then she gestures him inside.
"Are any of us? Are all of us?" She asks, simply.
"Please." She nods, clasping her hands in front of her again as she waits for him to enter the room.
|Abe|| Like a cold, sharp finger, etheral to everything but skin, dragging down from the nape of his neck and along the ridge of every last bone that made up his spine. A cold, sharp shiver that coursed through him as he peered into those twin, milky pools at the bottom of those deep, black pits. It was difficult not to look, impossible. Apparently utterly blind, he still felt awkward, like he should look away. He didn't have that problem long. She drifted away and he followed at the end of his arm, stooping forward, he almost feared he would pull her arm out of place if he suddenly came up short. There was not having enough to eat and then there was this! And without a single weapon! Maybe it was hidden amongst what used to be a dress. Something sharp, something hard tucked away.
His lips thinned once she spoke again, pulling into a straight line, he felt admonished. Almost like he should shrink away...
Their hands part, his swings back to his side, brushing past the holster of a gun. He watches, listens... she knows her way so she should be here... That's a vote of confidence, isn't it? Although patients can know hospitals as well as doctors if they visit often enough.
Or arn't allowed to leave.
"That wasn't-" he lied, "That was exactly what I meant." he confessed. His shoulders slumped, a slight shifting, rustling between vest and shirt. His footfalls moved past her, the smell of him, alcohol, perfume, sweat and blood. It swept past her as he accepted her invitation. "Thank you."
There would be more in that bouquet but he managed to get himself a hot bath not too long ago.
|Samhain|| Such luxury.
She seems aware of him at all times, shifting just slightly to allow for a frame stockier than most to pass without too much effort, eyes ever-moving as though they sought something -- anything -- to give them focus, to no avail. She likely knows that he stares, but it's not as though she isn't aware of the fact that she cuts an ... interesting figure to those that are not from the outreaches from which she hails. There is a hint of sadness there, evidence of illness, so tired and weak, so stubbornly defiant of her condition.
"For your honesty, I will offer you the same," Her voice is barely audible, as though it were either shy, or it physically pained her to speak. When he is passing, it's her hand at the small of his back that he'll feel; uninvited, likely unwelcome, but no more intrusive than one might receive from anyone else guiding another somewhere familiar.
"Am I alright?" She askes the question. "For now."
Cryptic, but honest.
"Am I sure?" Her head bobs shallowly as she follows him into the room, "... Always."
And that last one -- ooh, that last one.
Her own scent is one that would be both familiar and not -- like something from your childhood, but you just can't put your finger on it.
Cookies? Cleaning agents? Mother's perfume? That first crush's shampoo?
It is earthy, natural, spiced, floral... all of these things, yet none of them. If one were try to describe it, it's certain they would find themselves at a loss for it. But, whatever it is, it's so strangely familiar.
"Am I mad?"
She pauses a moment, her head tilting just so as she turns to regard him with a momentary contemplation, "... I do not think so?" It's mostly question, like she didn't really know the answer herself. "Perhaps... different... would be a better word." Her lips quirk in a bit of a gentle, almost apologetic smile -- like she was sorry she couldn't offer anything with more clarity.
'... two, three, and...'
Her hand rests on the table afforded for treatment, "Here we are," She pats it with a rattling of cloth and paper, suggesting that he pop himself up there.
"Tell me... how can I help you?"
|Abe|| Well, he is rich.
He stiffens with that guiding hand but he does clear tyhe doorway for her, stepping into the little examination room, closed off from the rest of the world just as soon as she can settle the door back in it's jamb. She put him... To say she put him on edge wasn't quite right but he did feel sharp, attentive, curious. No one was waiting for them so it would not be so obvious a trap. What then? He was accepting now that her intent was genuine but held in reserve the right to act smug should the hook catch. His attention shifted. The room was like every other one, dilapidated and ragged. Kept as clean as it could. He moved towards the table when invited. Trusting enough to give her his back for those short moments before he turned, resting his backside on the edge. He listened, half-listened as she spoke, attention divided as she answered those questions he hadn't quite managed to ask. He tried to place the smell that, through his nose, was pressing all of those buttons in his brain. Too many receptors firing. Cordite? she didn't even have... It didn't matter, half the world smelled like cordite at times.
She questions herself and he can't tell if she's kidding... When you study someone's eyes, are you watching the expression or the eyes themselves? Should he bee seeking other cues? He couldn't tell. She proposed a middle ground and he nodded...
A moment later he realized his folly and vocalized his acknowledgement and agreement, "That works as well as anything else..."
She inquired and he, "I..." he couldn't show her... He struggled and then resolved himself. Velcro tore itself apoart, clips came ondone, a battered t-shirt came free of a body. "PArdon me." he begged, reaching out.. and taking her wrist.
The flesh was soft, pliant. Save there where it had been molested, stitched together well. Other places, no open wounds. "I think... there's some radiation too." he explained. Rhere was always radiation.
"And... and I've been having trouble sleeping ever since I got back from Dunwich."
|Samhain|| There's no reaction of apprehension as her wrist is grasped, vacant eyes staring forward as that chill hand meets pliant skin. There's a quirk of the brow as fingers need the stitched flesh, but it isn't as though she hasn't 'seen' far worse out in the wastelands. She searches almost tenderly, pressing just hard enough to test at way lay beneath the skin and healthy layer of fat, prodding about as though she knew what she was doing.
It's possible she can sense his unease; she's likely used to it, what with how she looks, sounds, smells -- she's really a rich tapestry of wrong, but stands devoid of obvious threat, but she says nothing of traps, scams or otherwise to suggest she's onto him. All four fingers press together at points just above particular organs, a semi-circle 'massage' seeking inflamation or swelling where there shouldn't be, her eyes flickering closed as she seeks what ails him. What breaks him. What has wounded him so.
And then, he says something.
Her eyes snap open, a flash of something in those seemingly endless depths, something different, something that shouldn't be there. There's merely the wide-eyed stare, silence overtaking her for a few long moments, her curious dread not even so barely masked as most would be.
"You should not go to Dunwich." She finally allows, frowning ever so slightly. "If you must, at least you should have a guide. One that knows the fog and can decipher the mystery... a monster which the other monsters dread."
Poke. Poke, prod.
"... What have you seen when you close your eyes?" Right to the point.
|Abe|| Little sounds of minro discomfort here and there, a stilled breath or a loosed one with strained force. It is a banquet of small pains that constitute a larger, compounded problem. The woes of those that would be better off staying home.
It was all simple, all standard fare with a blind flare. Her touch was not unkind, She was gentle as could be with curious fingers. Then he mentioned Dunwich and things changed.
He rocks away as best he is able, spying something there, some canny scrutiny in eyes that scrutinized nothing. He began to sweat, beads of it swelling on his brow.
He should not go to dunwich, "I've guessed that since." he claimed. Not unguided, not unguarded... Who then, she? Incredulity... that waned He couldn't explane it, he couldn't explane her... maybe she had more weight to throw around in that... that place than he did. He chewed the thought. She prodded him, he grunted, sucked his teeth in answer to the discomfort.
"It's... it's never really clear." he confesses, resting back onto the table, hands planting against it's surface and lifting his bottom up and onto it, legs hanging free. He stoops, resting his arms against his knees. "I'm alone, fraid... and something's coming for me. Or it's already there... I can't stop it. It's intense but vague. I haven't had a full night's sleep in weeks. Nothing stops it. I can't drink enough to drownd it. Even if I'm dead exhausted... it just keeps coming back."
|Samhain|| "Alcohol keeps at bay only the demons we imagine," Her hand stills, fingertips feeling over the edge of that which had been causing such discomfort, applying that gentle pressure that will whisper to her the secrets of his pain. It will tell her if she must seek someone for surgery for this man, or if she herself can handle his internal damage. Her eyes are leveled on his, no longer wandering, not lost, not empty.
"Not the ones hunting us."
A moment passes with that unsettling stare, before it begins to move again without any sort of focus or point, meandering over the walls somewhere far behind him. Everything she says sounds as some far-away but ever too-near -- no, too real -- ghost story best told around the warmth and soothing light of a campfire. Not here, in this place, as sterile as things can get. Impersonal. Cold.
Finally, her fingers let up on that sore spot and she nods to herself, small hands feeling about the edge of the bed where he sits as she slinks her way toward a drawer, feeling over the handles of one, then two, grasping the latch that keeps it shut before tugging it open to retrieve some impliments she had stowed there before.
She takes in a slow breath, then just stands there with her medical equipment, staring, thinking, mind wandering in wastelands even he couldn't imagine -- far from this place, away in tortured worlds. She blinks, shaking her head quickly before making another approach toward him, placing her tools astride him on the bed before her hands move toward his face to grab either side, should he allow for it. If he does, she will draw him toward her as she lifts, rubbing her cheek to his, streaking it with her makeup before coming to rest with her ear against his temple, her eyes closing.
"In the darkest of places only the sightless see," She whispers, thumbs idly caressing at what skin she can find, if he hasn't recoiled from her touch. "When nightmare is truth, only a liar is free." She continues in those hushed tones, that familiar smell of her filling his senses. When she's done speaking, she draws back carefully, lifting onto her tiptoes to gingerly press her lips in a chaste kiss against his forehead.
Somehow, her words make a curious sort of sense to an addled mind.
She withdraws from him simply, hands seeking her tools, some stims, the usual fare.
"Those that pursue you think that you are alone in the dark. Let your laughter remind them that should you be, they are, as well." She fixes him with that vacant stare once more, "Until you are not."
|Abe|| It made sense when she put it that way. His head bobbed in acknowledgment, agreement. Whiskey tamed what few he had because they were in his head. Here it failed because these... demons were not...
His eyes were heavy, his brain fired slow. It took a minute for what she said to dawn on him. Not just some nugget of wisdom but a tacit and bold claim that what he had encountered was more than just... the usual wasteland irradiated-bullshit. His jaw was slack, his attention fixed upon her. His lips formed a word that his voice did not speak. What?
His eyes follow her, rapt, demanding. Abe was far from a devoted believer. If he said the lords name at all, it was to take it in vain. He was vagule aware of angles. He'd heard of demons... and now she claimed they were real. That they had been hounding him for these last weeks since Dunwich.
In this maelstrom, she finds him. She takes hold of his face. By the time he thought to move, she had him anchord with willowy fingers and her cold, clammy grip, the intimacy of the gesture over-ridden by her chill touch. He made a curious sound but it was lost, lost to her rubbing her cheek against his, painted skin moving against the rough bristle that lined his jaw and dusted his round cheeks.
Thoroughly confused and absolutely bewildered, The Scribe sat and listened. Cold fingers stroked him, the chill becoming less and ess a deterent. It raised gooseflesh along his arms, a little tingle that seeped into him, starting at his skalp and radiating outwards. The smell of her that colored ever breath he took. And then... a kiss. His grand mother could have kissed him like that.
If she hadnt fallen before he had been born.
And... Sure, demons were real. She said so... and every word she uttered here and now held some greater weight than he understood.
He rocked backwards when she left him, a hand coming up, curious fingers touching the flesh where she had kissed him, fingertips brushing across the surface as his eyes fluttered, "That was..." what?
|Samhain|| A slow blink, exaggerated by the dark paint around her eyes.
They disappear, those creamy pools, when she closes them like that -- the sockets of the 'skull' she wears pitch and empty, a sight that somehow makes her pearly gaze seem alive when they open to fix him once more. When he is silent, unknowing of his nodding, unaware of his expression, the way he loses himself on a path she could walk blindfolded and spun backwards, she simply stands there and waits, allowing nothing more than the soft humming of some obscure lullaby from some century and a half well past.
It's barely heard...
The insinuation of calm, and little more. Haunting, but a cool sort of comfort, not unlike her touch.
When he finally makes a noise again, a brow ticks upward, mirrored by the vague quirk of her painted lips in the hint of amusement. "That was... ?" It's a pattern -- she does something, and he has nothing to say, as though in askence that she complete what he cannot. "Weird? Nice?" She asks, her smile fading as quickly as it appeared, if one can even call that thing a smile.
"That was comforting?" She asks.
Perhaps she trusts his candor will continue, but she doesn't appear willing nor ready to wait for what descriptors he might use. From her medical collection she produces some pharmaceuticals, some general treatment that she knows by touch; something to deal with his radiation, something to numb the pain, to mend wounds as her words may have helped to soothe the battered mind.
"As uninvited as the guests you've been hosting in the smallest of hours, but not nearly as unwelcome, I would wager." There's that touch of cold again, her fingerpad feeling over his bared skin before a momentary prick of the needle is felt, little more than an irritation as she administers the dose. When she pulls the needle free, her thumb presses down on his skin, stopping the tug, denying the pain -- she is... very skilled with needles.
"When their voices come to mock you, you might find mine, instead. When they watch you from nearby shadows, know that I see them first." She draws her hand away to retrieve a small patch of gauzing and a bit of sterilized adhesive to keep it in place after a few soft dabs.
"I am Samhain... friend to the lost, respite from the wicked."
|Abe|| Normally, Abe couldn't be shut up. Not because he had anything useful to say or a strong view point on things but closer to something like him liking the sound of his own voice. To have been... almost mute was a strange happenstance. He almost felt he should apologize... so he did. He hands wandered over one arm, the other came up and swept through hair that could use a trim. "I'm sorry, it's just that-" it had been a long time, to be tormented every night, to see the day draw to a close and know the terror that was waiting for him just behind his own eyelids. He doesn't quite get to impart this, not fully! She has something in her other hand, collected from medical detritus. She brings it around and his eyes catch the gleam of metal along a slender, long syringe. "Ho Shi-" he exclaims as the needle dipd beneath the flesh, that faint pinch that has him averting his eyes and drawing a breath through his teeth!
It's not that it hurt in a agonizing fashion, he just deeply disliked needles... She had been so sudden, so abrupt. By the time his dramatics had passed into ash, she was already done, the literal pin-prick of blood staunched by the meagerest of scraps.
His expression soured, the corners of his lips weighted... He did not like needles... but he understood that they were a lesser evil in the grand scheme of things. "Thank you." he uttered a moment later, if pressed, he would begrudgingly admit that she was the best he had ever had stick him and these days, Abe seemed to be getting stuck often. He touched his fingers tenderly to taped pad, lips twisting this way and that as he considered it. She offered her name, he traded her his in return, "Abreham, Abreham McDonald... but folks tend to just call me Abe." he confessed, reaching out to meet his hand with hers. One hand to her wrist to lift it, the other slipping his palm against heres and gripping. I... Listen, I don't entirely get everything you've said. Still, thank you, if this works.. I really do owe you... In more than just a monetary capacity but that too."
|Samhain|| His dramatics give her a moment of pause.
When his eyes open, and all is over and done with, she's simply standing there with her head cocked to one side in a glance that screams of curious question. Her brows lift just a fraction, her lips twitching with the barest hint of a smile as though she would fight back laughter, though her soft features speak more of endearment than mockery.
She scarcely moves when his hand finds and lifts her by the wrist, she doesn't draw away, nor shift any more than her usual gentle sway -- the sort of thing that might bring to mind the image of a spectre more than a man, the elaborate markings that comprise her sugarskull visage ever so slightly skewed on the side that had met his rough skin. When he speaks, she patiently listens; his stuttered interruptions, his sudden difficulty in expression something that merely drifts by like casual breeze to someone that has spent lifetimes somewhere else listening to things she would rather hear less.
Her fingers curl about his offered hand, that smooth cool skin like marble against the warmth of his very alive flesh, almost feverish in comparison to hers. "Lost is a man that knows every word, as the light that led him in eager exploration is extinguished and left his path a drab and meandering mockery of what it had been in his desire for knowledge." She smiles that empty innocence of hers, eyelids lazily half-lidding as she does so -- a dreamy sort of state about her expression and tone, like it couldn't find any solid concept of what she was. What hope could he have? "We are not meant to understand... why the voices cry, or what they mean, only must we never allow ours to join them in their tragic reverie. I still understand you," She nods toward him, as though this somehow made things better, more clear. "So, you are not so far adrift that I cannot find you."
Introductions are made, and mentions of owing are soon to follow. "You owe nothing when the choice was mine. You gave me trust, in return I lent you aid." A pause, another of those thin yet genuine smiles, "Abe." She repeats, giving the hand that grips hers a meager, pitifully weak shake.
"You were lost. I have found. That's all."
|Abe|| How cold could a person be before they just weren't a person anymore. How cold until they were just meat?
She was amused, he was guessing that she was amused. There seemed some mirth there in her features, Some lightness that was... difficult to see beneath her ornate paint , marred as it might be here or there. He tried to smilkein returnm, for his sake more than hers. Proof that he didn't have to force a smile, that they could come of their own accord again.
Warm hands engulfed hers. A firm grip despite the mild discomfort that her touch, clammy and cold, caused. Their hands parted, and he made a point not to wipe his palm s on his pants legs.
She spoke up and... it sounded profound. It remained so upon a moment's reflection. "That would have been me, I am guesing..." he utters beneath his breath as she preaches. she continued... "Voices." he echoed, drifting for a moment. He was in danger of drifting into furhter hald statements or unfinished sentences when he forced himself to speak a full one. He drew breath, a steadying thing that came in through his nostrils. "That sounds more true than I would like to admit." he furthered his confession, "But even so, there's got to be something... 'Few caps?" he wondered, attention shifting.
Now I swear to you, he was not ogling the kind, blind woman. He was just... appraising her physiqe.
"A meal or a few? I swear I'd be able to see you if you stood infront of a strong light."
|Samhain|| When he guesses at who it would be, she only smiles again.
That seems to be all the response she needs.
Her hands are dry, not the clammy touch of death -- merely a smooth, strange chill. But, she can feel his unease, almost taste it stale on the air in the room, bitter like ash on the tongue. When he releases her hand, her head bows just slightly as though she would look at the palm she holds upturned toward her downward facing 'gaze'. Her outh tugs downward in a frown, a subtle wash of despare that radiates from her like some palpable tide of the damned. Her hand drops down where it can meet the other, her fingers lacing together to keep them both held infront of her, pearly gaze swallowed up by the black as their pitiful failure is closed away by her painted lids.
She says nothing about it.
A few caps when she offered friendship.
When she craved the same.
Finally, she merely bobs her head in a shallow nod, "A few caps might buy some supplies, but all your money spent will not an answer find." Alright, Yoda, simmer down. She takes an unsteady step backward, head still lowered, shoulders lifting in a faint shrug. "I need nothing from you, but should it soothe your mind... you may leave payment on the table."
She gestures toward the table indicated, before clasping her hands again, as though to keep them from wandering, chained and bound so near her center as they are. Her head turns by fractions back and forth as sound paints the image of the scene before her in ways her sight cannot, as though perpetually triangulating. "Please," She allows in a final expression of comraderie, "Stay away from Dunwich... you are not fit for the shadows."
|Abe|| What had he done? A self condemnation that settled on his shoulders like heavy hands. What had he done. His jaw hung slightly slack, lips parted as he tried to find the word to rescind that would undo whatever had cast the pall over her. He was not a smart man, not in her ways. His field of vision was narrowed by too much study and focus for him to readily open himself up to... Whatever it was. He would dismiss this all as maybe a ilness, a latent fever. At least that's what he would assure himself in hollo rationalization.
But he was a clever man, a keen man. His lips thinned, his jaw firmed. His boots tapped the floor as he slid from the table, "I think... I said something wrong." he confesses, "You showed me a kindness and I treated it like a service." he continues, reflecting as he makes some idle motions with his hands. He could blame his place of residence for that poor habit. He centered himself, drawing breath past his lips and letting it well within him for a moment before it was loosed, "That was rude of me. I apologize. Thank you, so very much. I might not have made it much longer otherwise..."
"I do wish to repay you. You.... have your business" as good as he can do at the moment, "and I have mine. Mine just so happens to encompass a good bit of bottle-top currency and a keen knowledge of science and various other things that rarely come in handy in our great, wide, radiated world." he continues. He gestures with a arm to a wall to indicate the place far beyond, a lost effort. "I am not trying to dismiss this as something bought and paid for. I want to help you out as you have helped me."
|Samhain|| "Hollow is the victory found in service of avarice."
She still stands the way she was, with her head bowed and eyes closed, as though she could hide whatever discomfort he had found if she merely faded away -- and boy, is she trying to just fade away. By this point, she's backed up far enough that she bumps the far wall, nestling ito the corner of table and construct, hands folded ever so neatly. She shifts, suddenly awkward, a tension building in her slender frame that would be obvious to any aside from... well, the blind, really.
"I will always find the lost." She offers him, as though to say that it was no big deal, that she would have helped anyway. But, it's not the truth, and she said she would offer him honesty in return for his own. Full lips press to a tight line, the skull that's painted on her face granted a sick and twisted grin as she does so, the pull of her skin warping the markings into something nefarious when before it had been so near celebratory of a culture all but forgotten now.
"... Business." She breathes out the word, scarcely a whisper on her lips, trickling free like secrets spilled. "I see in you a promise, a bastion, a hope... the light that leads." She offers suddenly, but does not lift her head nor open her eyes. She'll spare him her oddities as best as she is able. "The voices speak lies, but you do not know how to disbelieve. You walk a path you are not wont to walk alone, but... perhaps through the fear of inviting others into the nightmares that hunt, you do so anyway... and you will suffer."
Her eyes clench shut, her head giving the slightest shake.
"... how you will -suffer-..."
Haunting, those last words, armed with some venomous barb that weakens the resolve. "I have survived for so long without the help of others. I am lost to this world. My path has ended, and you cannot change that. Repay me by finding a new direction."
|Abe|| It was like plucking a bird, was that it? Painstaking work to complete but when you finished, you had something you could cook up and chew on. He listened carefully, attention honed on her for fear that yes, she would just fade from sight, almost evaporate. Or more that the meaning of her words would. He almost needed a notepad or a chalk board... but he managed to decipher her well enough to pass some meager muster. She helped him because she saw something. Something important in him or set out ahead of him, was that right?
"I... I think I understand, yes." he hazerded, "I won't go back there... no. Never again will I set foot in Dunwich."
This of course meant that someone will find a way to get Abe back into Dunwich.
"But I can still at least buy you a meal." he noted, "Not for a exchance just because..." he made... a gesture, he couldn't quite articulate it. Still it troubled him, "And maybe some new clothes... Or at least a set that ain't so beat up." She looked rough and... make-up aside, there seemed like so much she could use. Maybe even just a knife! He didn't know. He was quite assured that when it came to her, he would know very little.
|Samhain|| "I will accept your meal, if only to calm your ..."
Her head tilts to one side, one brow quirked in her puzzeling. "Guilt." She speaks, eyes unlidding briefly, slivers of moonlight in calm night sky. "Shame?" Those eyes don't lift to him, seeking that sightless something for the answer to the questions he wouldn't solve even if she had so directly asked. She closes her eyes again, some attempt to better hear what voices her mind insists speak, her lips idly pursing as she works out whatever it is that's giving her pause.
Either way, she continues, "You will."
She heaves a sigh, her brows creasing beneath the weight of her knowing. "You will, though I know not why, and you will be cut down by the savage ravaging of that which only you can see, and even you cannot stop. Bled and broken, you will return just as you have now... but, your wounds will grow greater, your fear will grow deeper, and the voices will never stop."
Well, that's cheerful.
"... Because you wish someone to speak to. Because you do not have a friend, because nobody cares, because nobody listens, because nobody knows, wants to know, wants to understand..." She articulates for him, because she's a helpful little freak.
"Because you are surprised by compassion, and ashamed to admit weakness, and need to be, nor do either in my company."
Her chin tilts up just slightly, and then she finally gives a reluctant nod. "Let us eat, then, until we are heavy with satisfaction, and worn to sleep by little more than the effort of gorging."