lostcarnival | ⇨ The Tourist Trap: WEEK 1

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⇨ The Tourist Trap: WEEK 1

Who: Anyone, anywhere in Portland.
When: October 1st - 7th, 2017
Where: Portland area, in the new reality.
What: Memories begin returning to the displaced as the fall gets chillier. How the hell did we end up here, again? Also, apparently, the fair is in town.
Warnings: Individually marked!

PORTLAND BY NIGHT↴

Memory regains will come into effect at the beginning of October, to whatever degree you've decided upon, and may be regained at whatever pace you desire from then on. For those with their full carnival memories, it will be like waking up in the body of someone else - for those with half and half, it will be like rapidly recalling sets of memories from a totally different life. Those with full amnesia will simply feel as if this is how it's always been.

Unfortunately for you, memories aren't the only thing you have to deal with. The supernatural community of Portland is bustling all of a sudden - could your presence and these events somehow be related?

► THE OUTER CIRCLE: As of the start of the month, the Portland Circle of Enlightenment will find itself starting to get swarmed with members from other chapters. Most notably, it would seem that a small cabal of top mages from the North American Enlightenment Council will be making their home in Portland's HQ. For anyone but the highest of ranks, the purpose behind their visit will be unclear, but it seems like something is definitely up on a metaphysical level. The Circle will be buzzing with rumours of unique planar activity and threatening omens. It seems that it all started with an unusual flare of activity in the planetary ley-lines, starting approximately a week ago. However, even if you would usually be the type to keep tabs on such things, you will find that you oddly have no memory of observing this phenomenon yourself.

► THE ANIMAL FAIR: Good news, the fair is in town! Or, at least, it would be good news... if this was a regular fair. Instead, what's being observed is a bunch of nearly identical flyers, spread all around Portland - each of which bears only the words "THE ANIMAL FAIR", a seemingly bloody paw-print of unknown origin, and the directions to a vague forested location outside of the city. It's dated for October 7th, and all instances of its posting having been discovered with a scattering of rose petals, crow feathers, and pre-burnt matches laying on the ground around them. Most are taking this to be some kind of bizarre viral marketing campaign, but others may know better.

► THE EARTH SPIRIT: If you have connections to The Pack or any of its many variations, you'll probably hear whispers of something very odd that occurred last week - according to the elders, it sounds as if the Earth Spirit, the magical and spiritual center of the planet, has suddenly taken a wound. It's not clear why or how, but there is a fair bit of concern among spiritual types, as it is werebeast belief and nebulous magical fact that the magical forces within the earth are the source of all magic here, as well as the source of life. While many werebeasts claim to have felt the Spirit succumb, you strangely have no memory of such an event occurring. Though things do feel strange, if you know how to tap into the Spirit yourself.

► THE WAR CRY: Though Anath's rain of terror across North America lasted for the first fifteen years or so of the Severing, most independent demons have had enough time to start taking the arch-demon's relative inactivity for granted. For that first while, the warrior queen had seemed determine to rebuild an army on earth by forcing her scattered brethren into service - only for her to gradually settle down in a fortress somewhere in Texas and dig in her heels. Of course, this was too good to last - it sounds as if she and her demonic legion have begun tearing their way up the west coast, their goals remaining a mystery. Their destination, however, is almost certainly Portland.

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After the escape from Nightshade's realm, Greg had expected to spend the rest of the day lying low--maybe getting a good alibi, or just snatching some well-earned rest. The powers that be seemed to have other plans.

Word had already spread fast about the attack on the Sanctuary, and Greg didn't think twice before rushing to the scene. He'd been too busy over the last few days to stop by, or he would have heard--when did those vines start growing? Why would she go after a safehouse like this now?

So Greg arrives on the scene, conveniently equipped with a bottle full of weedkiller, a raised scarf to ward off the airborne effects of plants, and looking harried enough that one might mistake him for having been at this for much longer. It would not be wholly inaccurate.

Steven has been trying. This entire time, he's been trying the hardest he can - ever since he got taken to his mother's realm, it's just been a constant struggle to stay alive and stay sane, but even when you're doing your best sometimes it feels like it isn't enough.

That's what it's starting to feel like, here.

Rita had managed to snap him out of his panicked meltdown, but after they got separated, it seemed like his mom's attacks just kept cutting him off from anyone who would help him. He didn't know how much control the Queen actually had over her vines, or if they were just following a spell - but functionally speaking, it's nearly impossible not to imagine her very personally attacking him, her will behind each and every grasping vine. How many of his friends has she gotten already? He doesn't know.

This is really his fault, isn't it? They'd tried to be kind to him, to protect him, and now this entire place was getting wrecked because he came here.

He's ended up wielding a fire iron of all things, the handle wrapped in a scrap of fabric from his torn shirt. This fire iron actually was iron, apparently, and so while it was better at smashing the vines, it was causing his hands to ache and burn at an alarming rate, even with the layer of protection. The thorns couldn't tear at him anymore, but they've ripped up most of his clothing, and he has bloody knees and bruises from the places he's been grabbed.

He's running out of places to go. He's cornered by them, now, and he doesn't know where anyone else is, and it's hopeless. Maybe he should just give up now? Maybe if he does, she'll hurt him less once she's taken him back.

He didn't even get to see his dad.

It was all he'd wanted. It was everything he'd escaped for. He just wanted to go back to his dad and be safe again, but he didn't even get the chance to do that. Tears roll down his cheeks, obscuring his vision, until finally one of the vines gets him around the legs. He falls, dropping the fire iron, helpless to do anything but watch it skitter away across the floor. He's tried to fight this with his own powers, but he doesn't feel like he can do it anymore. That was his only chance.

"Dad," he whines to no one. He tried. He really did.

There's utter chaos. It's near impossible to make heads or tails of the situation looking at the people fighting back against the assault, so Greg focuses on what he's best suited for; the vines. They grow thicker this way, surging thicker and stronger. That's their goal, and that's what Greg has to cut them off from.

He finds the thicket of them already forming, the fire iron still rolling across the floor away from the victim. He can make out the figure--someone small, too small, a child. He catches glimpses of strange little wings, thorns--a changeling. The Queen is stealing uet more defenseless children away. Again, again, and he won't let her do this.

Weedkiller douses the vines, and the effect is felt rather than seen. It's not enough to wither plants sent from Her Rosiness, but magical energies cut through the guided attack on the child. Their grip slackens and movement slows, resembling great sleepy snakes. It's enough for Greg to dig through the mass of them, grabbing on to the bloodied and shuddering figure underneath.

"I've got you, it's all right." His voice is rough, hoarse from the stress of the earlier rescue, but he speaks softly to the child as he pulls them loose. Thorns lazily cling at him, drawing thin lines of blood. "It's all right, I'm gonna get you outta here, c'mon."

It feels like suffocating. Though the thorns can't make their mark, the vines overwhelm him quickly, as completely as if he'd been submerged in water. The smell of the roses is strong, now, and even he can't resist it despite it's familiarity. His awareness swims.

That is, until the grip of the vines loosens, and he feels warm, stable hands reach in to pull him out. It feels like when he'd finally escaped the vines a week earlier. He's spent, and at the mercy of fate.

And in that sense, he'd never have believed that he could be this fortunate.

Gasping for air, he clings to the body of his rescuer with burned fingers and bruised wrists, still choking on his sobs of desperation. It doesn't seem to matter in that moment who saved him. The fact that anyone did at all enough is to make them cling to them like his solitary lifeline.

There's a notion that something is strange, slightly off--a budding suspicion that Greg's missing something important. The young changeling comes out of the vines sobbing and torn, and in the moment before he can get a good look at his face it dawns on him.

"...Steven...?"

It's a breathless word, the air caught somewhere his lungs can't reach. The chaos, the noise, the danger all seem to come to a standstill while Greg cradles the crying boy in his arms.

"Steven."

It's a tight little squeak, full of awe and disbelief and despair and joy. All these years, desperate and lonely and full of regret, waiting for this chance, for this boy covered in thorns and tears but just the same, changed yet identical to the day he'd been lost.

Hot tears blur Greg's vision and he blinks them away, unwilling to miss a second of his son's face in this moment. His hands have gotten rough and dirty from the last years of work, but they're gentle as they wipe away his son's tears.

"Oh, Steven..."

That voice is enough to break Steven out of his exhausted hysteria, and he suddenly becomes still as his eyes open and reveal who has been wiping away his tears. It would be so easy to assume this had to be a mistake, that this was some kind of trick meant to toy with him after being captured, but in this state of vulnerability he can't even bring himself to doubt. This all he has to hold onto.

He's stunned by it, staring up at his father with an expression of helpless wonder, still hiccuping with quiet sobs that only now begin to slow. It takes a few moments to sink in - just when he'd thought he'd lost the chance to find him for good.

"Dad?"

It's all he can figure out to say, struck dumb by confusion and fear. He reaches up to touch Greg's face in return, his fingered blistered by the touch of iron, as if he's expecting for his hands to pass right through.

He's been so afraid of this moment for so long, terrified that he would be rejected for what he's become, or forgotten by the life he'd been taken from.

"Y-You found me..." He chokes.

He cling to his father tightly, and never wants to let go.

Four years is a long time to be alone. It's a lot of time to wonder, the theorize, to panic. Every worst-case scenario had gone through Greg's head a dozen times over, until they felt like a certainty.

Steven would hate him. He'd blame Greg for not being there, not stopping his capture, not coming to find him sooner. Steven would be cold indifferent to him, taken in by the fae completely and disconnected from the humanity that had failed to shield him. Steven would forget him entirely, so scrambled and abused by his captors that no memory of their love or happiness would have survived the long years spent waiting.

In an instant, the years of fear and dread were pushed aside like the bad dreams they were, with just a few simple words. Greg chokes out a sob, nodding and clutching Steven close.

"You came back. Oh, Steven, you're home."

He could just about shower the boy in kisses, and nearly does before he notices the weakened vines still trying to snare his pantleg. Kicking them away is easy, but it reminds him of the danger at hand. Greg looks over his son, the scrapes and bruises and burns. "I--I'm gonna get you outta here. We'll go someplace safe." This was supposed to be the safe place, but... well, they'll need to figure something else out.

Steven's eyes have fallen half lidded, the power of this revelation seeming the only thing keeping him awake. So many things nag at his thoughts - about how there are still people here, about how he needs to protect them, but he doesn't have anything left. Is there anything he could actually do? Everyone just seems to get hurt trying to protect him.

He nods desperately, agreeing with Greg's sentiment, his fear and need for safety outweighing other theoretical options. His fingers curl around Greg's shirt as he struggles to remain conscious. If this is a dream, he wants to just go with it. He'll keep dreaming forever.

"Please," is all he can manage, his wings folding in tightly as he hides himself against Greg's body.

It's perhaps a bit heartless, a tad selfish, to run from the Sanctuary while the vine attack is still under way. Greg sprays down what he can while navigating his way out, but the main goal remains strong: he has to get Steven out of here, no matter what. If the vines are after his son like it seems, maybe it can even help things out for those remaining once Steven's away from the danger. One way or another, the Queen won't get her tendrils on him today.

He keeps running, son tucked in close to his chest, until they're several blocks away. Greg is well and truly exhausted by the time they plod up to a small motel a few blocks from his apartment. They can't go back home, that's the first place people will look, but at least he can easily find whatever they might need in the area from here.

"Stev... Steven. Are you--are you hurt? L, let me get a look at you." He's still puffing for air as he looks his son over, feet heavy and lungs burning, wheezing a little as he finally slows down. In the back of his mind, he's surprised he kept it up for as long as he did, and he can't quite place why. Now's not the time. "Sorry for the, the bumpy ride."

Steven is barely cognizant of that journey, though he's aware of the fact that they're moving quickly and roughly. It's uncomfortable, to say the least, but he doesn't have the will or the energy to protest it. He doesn't feel any differently. If he could, he'd be running until he couldn't anymore, too.

The soporific effects of the roses are still lingering once they're there, which is weighing him down more than any physical injury. It's even harder to focus by the time Greg starts stops running, and Steven's eyes blink heavily as they try to process what he's seeing.

Amazingly, the thorns don't seem to have cut him up at all, which seems impossible considering how long and threatening they were, and how caged in Steven had been. What is increasingly visible is a selection of bruises from where vines had wrapped around him limbs only to be yanked away from, and from several falls he'd had while running. His wings (though Greg may have no frame of reference for how they should look) also seem to have shed a great deal of their petals, as if tugged off.

The worst is his palms, though, burnt as if by some dangerous chemical. The skin is puffy and swollen, and only getting worse as the wound has time to settle in.

"I... mmn..." Steven mumbles, trying to articulate himself but finding it difficult. "I can't... wake up..."

Greg's more inclined to notice what damage is there than what conspicuously isn't. He recognizes the iron burns, and for a fleeting moment wonders who might have attacked him. The memory of the iron rolling across the floor resurfaces, and Greg lets out a small, shuddering sigh. Steven's been fighting so hard, all alone... if he'd been a little later finding him...

But he did, and he can take care of it now. Greg rummages through his pockets, until after a little bit of clattering he pulls out one of the rune stones he'd brought with him to Nightshade's realm. He'd used most of them up after their escape to try and dispel any potential magic from those spores, but Sans had flown off too fast for him to hand the last one off. Instead, he tucks the smooth stone into Steven's hand, where it can unravel some of the magic slowing him down.

"Here, hold on to that. It'll help. Just rest a little bit, and I'll take care of you. I promise."

He can't get to most of his magical supplies right now, but he can still do a few things as an ordinary human. No--as a father. That's what he is, right now. It's terrifying, leaving Steven alone even for a few brief minutes, but necessary. First to rent out a room without the clerk questioning the battered child with him, then to rush to the corner store and collect some supplies.

Greg returns to the room still jittery and anxious, a couple bags of bandages, disinfectant, and food in hand. The old little coffee maker in the room is quickly set to work heating up instant noodles and canned soup while Greg settles down on the bed next to his son.

"How're you feeling? Any better? Here, let me see those hands." He hesitates before touching Steven. Even those sparse few minutes away pulled out his fears again, expecting some sort of fear or backlash. Maybe the reaction was delayed. Maybe Steven would remember how upset he was after the adrenaline wore off. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Steven gingerly holds onto the runestone, the coolness of the rock comforting against his burns, if nothing else. Everything still feels like it's been caught up in a whirlwind, and for the moment, he doesn't have the energy to do much but just let his dad do what has to be done at this point. There's not enough space in his head for any suspicion or doubt.

Of course, that changes a little after he's been left to rest on the bed while Greg runs out to quickly grab supplies. The power of the rose's enchantment gently ebbs away, gradually replaced with natural exhaustion - still present but not as commanding or extreme. It's enough that he can start feeling afraid again while he's left alone, nervously eyeing the dark corners of the motel room, but at least that state doesn't last long.

His clothes are basically destroyed at this point, torn up by the thorns that failed to reach his flesh. As Greg returns, Steven has pushed himself up a little, his wings flexing gingerly and his expression obviously dazed, as his body foggily feels out its limitations. The glance he casts back to his dad arriving is initially startled and defensive, like a feral animal that's forgotten how to take comfort in another's presence. For that first moment, anyone coming in reads as a threat.

But then, it slowly fades, and Steven's expression relaxes into something harder to read. Disbelief, maybe? Uncomfortable uncertainty?

He opens his fist, revealing the stone in his palm, which Steven stares at wonderingly like he can't quite remember when it was given to him. He sinks down like he's trying to make himself smaller, and then cautiously offers his hands out to his dad, looking down at the bed as he does. Greg is right, that some new emotions are rising as the adrenaline fades, but it's nothing as straight forward as anger or fear.

It's more like he's trying to read whether or not there is going to be any surprise backlash from Greg, like he doesn't know how he stands with his parent anymore. Is he supposed to be submissive? He adopts that sort of posture reflexively, unable to separate truth from paranoia.

Now that the initial shock's wearing off, a tension is weaving into the air. In spite of Greg's relief to see Steven more alert, the cautious and anxious posture reminds him how much there is left to figure out. They're waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Greg can't quite bring himself to make eye contact, gingerly taking Steven's hands into his own and looking over the damage. "Okay. Not too bad, easy fix." His voice is barely above a whisper, possibly more to himself than to Steven. Again he pulls away, gathering up the supplies he's found. And again, he has to steady himself with a couple breaths before coming back to sit by Steven, cool washcloth and bottle of ointment in hand.

"Let's get you cleaned up. This might sting a little, okay?" He shoots furtive looks up at Steven's face, before taking his hands again and gently cleaning the burns.

Steven nods in understanding, feeling oppressively mute in the face of what he's dealing with. It had taken him a few days to start talking much again, and the shock of the Queen's attack feels like it's set him back. The worst part is that he can't figure out how he should be reacting. It's not that he's forgotten what it was like to be with his dad - happy memories of what life could be like was the only thing that kept him going when he finally escaped.

Yet, now, it's so hard not to feel like something must have changed about him that he doesn't get to act like that anymore. It was easier at the Sanctuary, where everyone was a stranger and for who being a changeling seemed like a normal affair. His dad, though...

He has no idea how his dad felt about anything that happened. He always assumed that his dad would be against it, because Childermass had pointedly taken him when his dad wasn't there to protect him. Initially, he'd been set on imagining how his dad would realize he was gone and come and get him, and that he'd tell the Rose Queen that they were leaving and that she couldn't treat him like that anymore.

Of course, that never happened.

So what did that leave? He's not angry that he wasn't rescued - instead, it's more like he started feeling like it wasn't necessarily something he was owed, and maybe his dad agreed that this was how it had to be even if he didn't like it. Steven was a changeling, after all, and as his mom had taught him again and again, he belonged to her, rightfully and justly so.

He closes his eyes, but not because of the pain. The pain doesn't phase him anymore. It does sting, and the burns feel awful, but its not the first thing on his mind. He keeps trying to say something, but he feels like his voice has been spirited away.

"A-Are..." he tries, barely managing to get past the word. The easier it is to think, the harder it is to talk. He keeps trying. "A-Are you... going to t-take me... back?"

Greg's about to start bandaging up Steven's hands when the question comes out. It stops him dead, and Greg finally looks up to his face properly. His words catch in his throat, piling on top of one another, before Greg reaches out to grip Steven's shoulder.

"I..." He swallows, sucking in a breath through his teeth. "I will never... ever... let anyone take you back there." He squeezes Steven's shoulder. "Not so long as I'm alive, I won't... you're never going back there."

That could be where he left it, but now that the subject is breached it feels impossible to stop. Greg's hand shakes slightly where it rests against his son. "I... Steven, I'm... I'm so sorry. I always... all these years, I wanted so badly to... I never found a way to get you free, I'm so... I'm so sorry, can you ever forgi..." His voice cracks as the tears spill over again.

It's an answer. For the first time in four years, that confession allows Steven to understand the context surrounding his kidnapping - not in theoreticals, but in truths. She really had hurt both of them, hadn't she? Maybe neither of them really meant anything to her, in the end.

Steven's wings flutter, stirred by a flurry of emotion inside of him. He wants to reach out a hand, to try to communicate in gesture what he's have trouble expressing in words. He just barely touches Greg's face before stopping, remembering the ointment and burns. Neither of them know what to do with themselves, do they?

"She never... she never cared about us," Steven fumbles out in response, trying to communicate his lack of anger but not knowing how. "Did she?"

They were both hurt. He can see that, now.

Greg doesn't reply immediately. Even if he's known, truly, for years, he's never said it out loud--never had anyone to talk about it with, never had the desire to hear the words. In spite of everything, even after all this, he held out some small hope that there was some part of her that...

"I don't think she did." He steadies his breath, and begins bandaging Steven's hands.

He remembers her being so kind, so warm and bright and full of love, but it's as though she's a completely different person now. He wanted to believe in the woman he remembered, but she was a lie all along.

The only thing Steven ever had to compare it to was Greg describing her back when he was little. He'd never met the woman he refers to, and he still isn't he sure has... unless, maybe he's wrong.

For a long time he'd hoped, and tried to believe that there was some of that humanity inside of his mother that Greg had remembered. Some part of her that would value him as her song, and maybe even care about him. In reality, though, hints of that potential had only ever made it hurt more when it was taken away.

He falls silent as Greg begins bandaging his hands, allowing him to work with a distant and muddled expression on his face. He hasn't really spoken to anyone about the things that were done to him, either. It had felt like too much to face all at once. But, there are some things he's never really been able to understand on his own.

"Sometimes..." he begins, slowly and painstakingly. Speaking sounds like such a trial for him, right now. "Sometimes she would... She hurt me." He looks down. "But... she would... act really nice to me, after... like she was helping me..."

She would almost trick him into believing it, and then it would start all over again.

It hurts to hear, to imagine... but not nearly so much as it must have hurt Steven to experience. For him to go through that sort of torment, that manipulation and abuse...

"I think... she wants people to love her." Greg's spent so long trying to understand the Queen's barbed affections, and it ensnared him like this. This is as close as he's come to an answer. "She wants us to be with her, but she doesn't know how it works. She likes being loved, and she likes being better than people."

Greg's face screws up, and he shakes his head. Is explaining her cruelty even worth the breath? It's so hard to comprehend why fae do things, and for a child it may do more harm than good to justify anything. "Whatever sort of things she did, Steven, whatever things she said... you didn't deserve it. You deserve so much better than, than what she..." His words trail off, and he ties off the bandages.

Edited 2017-06-24 00:45 (UTC)

His emotions on this subject seem to rise and fall like the tide - sorrow leaves him, to be replaced by fear and numbness, only for that overwhelming sadness to fill him again like a flood. It's started to drown him again, hearing Greg's words. Neither of them wanted this. His dad had wanted so much better for him but it all got taken away.

He crawls forward, wrapping his arms around himself and falling against Greg's body, tears beginning to run down his cheeks again. The stunned horror of her brutality can't last forever, and in it's wake all he can feel is there tragedy of what's happened, and feel the loss of what's been taken from him.

He wanted to be held by his dad, like he should have been for these four long years. His craving for that comfort and that security is overwhelming, and now that he knows it's what Greg had wanted too, there's no holding back.

He wants to believe that this really is over, that now they can be free. That hope is something he will cling to for as long as he can.

It still doesn't feel real. This sort of change, it wasn't--Greg hadn't prepared himself for this, today. Exhausted and dazed and fumbling through the aftermath, he's been waiting for something to wake him up.

Steven leans against him, and he's warm and heavy and sharp and real. And small, so small. Greg wraps his arms around the boy, unable to believe how small he is. He'd forgotten. Four years, and he'd forgotten what it was like to hold his son. He thought he remembered, but it was nothing like the solid, warm, real thing.

Greg hugs him closer. He has to be careful not to rustle those strange new wings, or snag himself on those sharp new thorns, but it's just the same little boy he used to hold. He could stay forever like this, to make up on lost time, to put off what may come next. All he wants to do is hold Steven.

Uninterrupted, this will probably go on for a fair while. When talking is so difficult, and with so many thoughts that are so hard to express, just being held close is soothing in a way that discussing the situation can't be. Freshly cleaned and treated, the pain in his hands has lessened too, meaning that his lingering exhaustion can slowly start catching up with him.

It doesn't happen immediately, but after they hold each other for a while, Steven will eventually cry himself to sleep. His wings fold loosely around the two of them, his shuddering breaths having calmed into the regular, relaxed rhythm of sleep.

Small amounts of faerie magic stir in his wings and on the bed sheets around them - not her magic, exactly, but something different. Yet, for the moment, nothing happens.

Basking in their shared weariness and comfort, there's a sense of release that Greg hasn't felt in so long. He doesn't let himself fall asleep as Steven does, but some tension is finally gone, enough for his mind to drift.

As scary as things are sure to be, he's positive they can handle it now that they're together. Like they always did back in their apartment, and when they would sing together, or comfort each other after monster attacks--vampire attacks? discussions of war? discussions of her--

The magic in the air stirs around them, startling Greg out of his muddled reflections. For a moment, he's hopelessly confused and lost. They're not--where are they, again, why is... The moment passes as a waking dream, forgotten just as quickly as it came as the building magic catches Greg's attention.

Greg's hold on Steven tightens slightly as he searches for a sign of its effects, both anxious and awed. He can sense it, separate from the Queen's and his siphoned power, but unmistakably related.

It doesn't take long for the effect of the lingering magic to show itself. Around the headboard and bed frame in general, tiny green seedlings will start to appear. Growing at a rate that is undeniably supernatural, but somehow more gentle than the great thorns they left at the Sanctuary, they curl and twist into a series of small rose vines.

Unlike the Queen's vines, they are small and fragile, with tiny little prickles instead of deadly thorns. It's more like flowers being painted into an art piece than something meant to be aggressive, like a weapon or an attack dog.

Soon after the plants start growing, they will begin blossoming with tiny roses, in a pink that matches Steven's wings. That same magic lingers inside of them - not like the Queen's, not quite like Greg's, but maybe something in between.

All the while, Steven breathes softly, his exhausted slumber drifting into something a little more peaceful.

Greg's nerves settle as he watches. He's spent a great many years with the magic of nature, seen it in a great many forms and wielded it for both destruction and creation, had it used against him and in his favor. It never stops being incredible, though.

One hand looses from around Steven, reaching out to touch and get a better look at these blooming buds.

It occurs to him that they're going to have to do some cleaning up before they move on.

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⇨ The Tourist Trap: WEEK 1

CLOSED TO STEVEN

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