ashes, splinters, golden light.

Erich Reinhardt

Erich is at Cold Crescent. Why is he at Cold Crescent? Because it is his Sept and it is his duty to protect his Sept and he is a Fostern now which means he is very strong and must be very dutiful and very protective and also there is free laundry here.

So that is where Erich is: in the laundry room, surrounded by the meditative whummwhummwhumm of washers and dryers; the smell of fresh warm laundry in the air. He is reading a book, which is a battered paperback from the little bookshelf someone put in here one day. The bookshelf is labeled Cold Crescent Book Exchange and there are some rules tacked up: take what you want, keep what you want, but give back when you can because that's kinda the point, duh.

Erich is reading the second Harry Potter book. Eva's kid gave him the first one and it was kind of silly and he thought it was kind of childish and dumb but still, it was sort of good. So now he's reading the second one,

thinking of looking out windows he knows-but-doesn't-know, thinking of the smell and taste of lightning, the summer storm-scene outside he remembers-but-doesn't-remember.

Melantha Argyris

It is much, much easier at times to throw all the laundry into the truck or the jeep and take it to the sept to let it wash and dry without having to keep a million quarters on hand. It's a long drive, though. Sometimes they just go to the laundromat in Evergreen. Melantha hangs out there or across the street, doing what Erich is doing now: reading a book. Sometimes she munches on granola bars.

She draws. Sketches, actually, which is not something that Charlotte or Erich ever see her do, because she doesn't do it around them, or anyone she knows. Or work people. She is doodling, and there is an architectural desire for precision in it, and she doesn't want people think she's going to start doing portraits or something. She keeps drawing things like the interior of a single-stall bathroom, a mirror, a hanging bulb. They are basic drawings, and she isn't trying to recreate so much as remember, to give form to the formless, filling in the blanks as she goes.

She also draws rows of trees, marching dark trees a few flecks of snow or something starting to fall, a road she does not follow. Sometimes there are birds, but lately, more and more, there is smoke. That isn't snow.

The other day she woke up crying. Her face was wet and she was uneasy, feeling a grief she didn't understand, a fear that felt out of place. She wiped her eyes and got out of bed and forgot, a while later, until she was falling asleep again, knowing she was only going to end up at the edge of the woods again.

--

When she comes up the elevator into the dorm floor, she knows she's going to find Erich because he knows she's coming because she reached out and touched his mind on the drive down. He's in the laundry room, so she heads that way. She's changed out of her work clothes and she took a quick shower but her hair is (mostly) dry now. She's wearing that hoodie with the feathers on it.

"Hey," she says, even though she doesn't need to, dropping into the seat beside him, looking at the book he's reading, then, without further preamble, laying her head on his shoulder. You can almost smell how pensive she is.

Erich Reinhardt

Of their small pack, Melantha is perhaps the wildest, and Charlotte the most ethereal. Erich: Erich is the stability of earth and the quick-temper of storm, though right now that fire is banked and he is just big and solid and very midwestern, very all-american, in his white t-shirt and his blue jeans and his blond hair and his blue eyes.

He looks up as Melantha comes in. He likes that hoodie. He likes the feathers and he likes the contrast, white on black. He is also in a hoodie: that big sherpa-lined one that is gradually becoming less and less necessary as the days beat toward a hard-won spring.

"Hey," he replies, as she pillows her head on his shoulder. He leans over and sort of sniff-smell-smooches her, his lips against her mostly-dry hair. She smells like deep thoughts and deep wilderness, and he, for once, does not immediately launch into a small deluge of words, observations, all the things that happened while they were apart.

He's just quiet, too. And reading, but not really reading, because he's been reading the same page over and over for ten minutes without absorbing any of it. Eventually he just closes the book and lays it in his lap and kind of just ... exists with Melantha.

Melantha Argyris

Normally, you don't have to ask Melantha what's on her mind in order to hear it. She doesn't play games like that -- not intentionally, at least. This past year or so her insecurities have often gotten the better of her, though. But none of that is why she's so quiet when she comes in, even though something is obviously bothering her. She doesn't realize she's putting that vibe out. She's tired and unsettled and uncomfortable and doesn't really know why, so she doesn't realize anyone else could tell just by looking at her.

He says hey back, sniff-kisses her hair, and doesn't tell her all about his day, which makes her think of kids who are like AND THEN I SAW A RAINBOW AND THEN I TALKED TO MY FRIEND ABOUT ROCKS AND THEN. He just closes his book, putting it down.

Melantha goes for his hand, once they aren't both busy holding or doing something. She gives him her hand, palm to palm, fingers laced.

Erich Reinhardt

And he takes her hand. His broad palm, his sturdy fingers. Strange to think that in a way, his hand is far more malleable than hers. Mutable. Every bone, every tendon, every vessel, every muscle: they seem so steady and stable, but he could change entirely in an eyeblink.

He squeezes her hand. And he holds it for a little while. And then he lays his cheekbone against her head, exhaling a little. "Long day?" he asks her. After all, that's how she looks: like she just had the longest day in the history of long days.

Melantha Argyris

She shakes her head against his shoulder. "No," she muses. "Normal day. I'm just really tired. And I've got this weird taste in my mouth that I've had for a while. I think I might be getting sick."

Erich Reinhardt

"Ew," he says automatically. "What sort of taste?"

Melantha Argyris

Melantha doesn't even seem to have the energy to elbow him or glare at him for his 'ew', when she might be getting sick, where is his sympathy. She just wrinkles up her face, wincing almost. "Like... ashes."

Erich Reinhardt

Ashes. That's not what he expected. Like puke, maybe. Like acid. Like bile. Like metal, even. But ashes! He furrows. He opens his arm and he kind of dislodges her from his shoulder, but then his arm goes around her and he hugs her against his warm side.

"Want me to rub your back? Or like. Hold your hair while you try and barf? I can make you some hot chocolate too. I saw some in the kitchen earlier."

Melantha Argyris

They spend enough time together, even just hanging out on the 'couch' in the tinyhouse, that Melantha knows what he's doing when he moves his arm. She lets him, and settles back under his arm once he puts it around her, and she gives a little yawn.

"I don't feel like I'm gonna throw up," she tells him, reaching up to rub her eye. "I just... I don't know. I've been having this dream for awhile. And at first it was one thing but now it's pretty much always the same, and I think it's snowing but then it's not snow, it's ash, and there's smoke in the sky, and I can't get the taste out of my mouth. Everything I eat tastes like it."

Erich Reinhardt

"Huh," says Erich, and it's one of those huhs. Those huh that is really weird and now I am thinking about it huhs. He is quiet for a while.

They are in the laundry room, not the nice common area with the couch and stuff, so really it's not terribly comfortable: plastic bucket-seats like the sort they have at subway stations, no recline or padding or anything, and the two of them scooched together the best they can under cuddle-unfriendly circumstances. He doesn't suggest they move, though. She seems so tired. And also, he still likes sitting with her like this, even if it's not the most comfortable seat ever.

"You know," he says after a long time, "I've been having this one dream over and over too. It's nothing like yours though. It's actually kind of a good dream. I'm in my bedroom and it's kinda like the bedroom I grew up in and kinda like the loft in the tinyhouse but it's not really either, except it's kinda both and also every nice-comfortable-bedroom ever. You know? It's just nice. And it's sunny, like it's Sunday morning in September and there's just a bit of nip in the air. I smell lightning, though, and then I wake up."

Melantha Argyris

The steadiness of tossing, thumping clothing in the dryers is oddly comforting. The air smells and tastes like detergent and softener, even if Melantha's mind turns it to ashes. Even the discomfort of the seats keeps her focused in the here and now, away from things like the edges of forests. The sun is still mostly up, streaming through a window, making the room bright and warm-feeling with the golden color of late afternoon in early spring.

He's been having a recurring dream, too. And that's already weird, because recurring dreams aren't actually that common: either you always have recurring dreams or you almost never do. His dream sounds nice, though. Lovely. Which isn't fair. He smells lightning.

Melantha is worried. Sounds it, quietly, when she says: "You know how you just know things in dreams?" He nods, or grunts, or something. She takes a breath, her chest expanding, and says: "When I'm dreaming, I'm at the edge of these woods. There's a road but I'm not walking it. There's smoke coming up from somewhere, and ash falling. I've seen some birds. But every time, I just know someone's... dead. And I can't remember what's happened. Like I know there's something that's happened and I should know, but I can't remember what it is.

"The other day I woke up crying because of it," she admits quietly. "If I could do anything in the dream I'd go into the woods and find the source of the smoke and find out what happened, but I'm afraid to. And I can't do anything in the dream, it just... unfolds."

Tamsin Hall

[ooc: where are you suckers?]

Tamsin Hall

[ooc: and then I read up and went 'laundry!' never mind. (grin)]

Tamsin Hall

Tamsin does not have a lot of possessions. Does not have a lot of clothing, and what she does have is scattered across time and space -- or at least across the homes of packmates and friends and even aquaintances and sometimes it gets done with their laundry and sometimes Tamsin realizes that she needs to be responsible and-or that she is in danger of wearing something too dirty and too gross and she goes to do a load.

That's what happened earlier today, but she's returning now because she realized that she left something behind, or maybe it dropped, Tamsin, she's not that organized, but it's her favourite Labyrinth David Bowie shirt, a gift from somebody, she doesn't even remember who, but somebody, and it's threadbare and thin and pretty much just a layer this time of year, but she wants it. So:

dark-haired, gloomsome Fianna Galliard belonging to Fog comes a-quietly all on-a-mission into the laundry room, eye first on the tops of machines because that's where socks and whatnot get placed when they're found right off in the wrong load, but no, nothing there, just a -

just an Erich sitting in those plastic scoop chairs next to a Melantha who Tamsin does not know. Tamsin's gaze scuds from one to the other, and there's an, "Um, hey," to start, because Tamsin isn't an interrupting force of nature.

Erich Reinhardt

"Well," this is the conversation Tamsin stumbles upon when she comes to find her favorite Labyrinth David Bowie shirt

(because of course Tamsin would have a Labyrinth David Bowie shirt),

"do you know it's a dream? Because if you know it's a dream, you should just will me into existence in your dream. And Charlotte. And then we'll go with you and you can go into the woods and see what happened.

"Then maybe after that you can come into my dream and figure out what's happening in my dream. Because ... yeah. I mean, it's really nice and happy and sunny and bright? But it feels like something is about to happen, too. Like that kind of tightness in the air, you know? Maybe it's the first day of school or maybe it's the SATs or maybe there's a tornado coming, I don't know. But it feels like something's on the verge of happening in my dream, too."

And: enter Tamsin. And: Erich looks up. He sort of straightens up; not scrambling like a boy caught fooling around with his girlfriend behind the bleachers, no, but still sort of straightening. "Oh, hey, Tamsin. I think I saw your shirt. I put it over there." He points. "Melantha and I were just talking about our dreams. 'Cause we've been having weird dreams lately."

Melantha Argyris

"I can't even will myself into going into the woods, I'm not sure I could Make An Erich," she argues, as she is wont to do. "Much less A Charlotte, because she's way more complicated."

And that is an arguing-tease. But she listens for the rest, which is foreboding, anticipatory, apprehensive. Yes, that's the word: apprehensive. She says it aloud: "Apprehensive." Then, to correct: "My dream makes it feel like something has already happened."

Which is when Tamsin is there, saying Um, hey.

Melantha is in there, smelling of... by god. Even with detergent and softener in the air, even with Erich's purity a pulsing light of Fenrir-ness, the room is dominated by that wildness. This time of year it only seems more pronounced, like Persephone herself rising back from Hell and the world erupting into life and color in celebration at her return. There's a darkness to it, a chthonic savagery, but it's almost spring, and the day was warm, and she makes the room seem Female and Goddess and Maenad and... if we're blunt: Fertile.

She looks up when Tamsin comes in, vaguely recognizing her from a moot or a punishment rite or a meeting or something, though she's not sure they've ever traded words. Melantha, seeing her up close, has a sudden arch of thought that this woman is really, really beautiful in a woodland way, not at all the sort of beauty compared to roses or knives or moonlight. It's a stray thought, an appreciation that comes from something that seems oddly familiar about that kind of loveliness. She is instantly well-disposed toward the Fianna, even if that's kind of shallow. Even if she doesn't know the other woman's name until Erich says it.

She lifts a weary-looking hand and gives a little wave to Tamsin. "Hi," she says, not straightening up at all. She glances at Erich, who is blabbering all about her dreams like this isn't private stuff, but then again: Melantha's no idiot. Far, far from it. And if he's having recurring dreams and she's having recurring dreams,

maybe it isn't private. She exhales, lifting her head from his shoulder.

"Tamsin's a cool name," she says.

Tamsin Hall

Tamsin isn't an eavesdropper but that statement is a lie and is all false assumptions Tamsin is totally an eavesdropper but most've the conversation about dreams that happened before she slipped in (on little cat feet: gray-fog, gray-fog, where-do-you-drift-to?), maybe she hears verge of happening in my dream too and then something has already happened and

oh hey Tamsin and Erich saw her shirt maybe so she perks up immediately and goes where he pointed.

Goes: as if it's that simple. No no Tamsin doesn't go she bounces over. Tamsin is not a giddy happy-girl bounce-y thing, so it's more like bouncing with malice aforethought: bouncing to predicate a leap or a pounce that may be nice but may not be nice you know? Dark-haired fey-thing, she, you know, and the Good Folk were never good, never, not really, just Other, just Other, and Tamsin looks pretty tired and well what is the word. Hungover, that is probably the word, because Tamsin engages in all Fianna stereotypes, except when she ums and is shyish (always ish because Tamsin is not really shy not reallyreally). So: bounce over to maybe-place with --

YES. Her shirt is there. Happy day! Seriously: she looks so glad-relieved to have it again. Doesn't grin or say anything immediately but she takes it up with both hands and hugs it pressing the fabric over her nose and mouth so she can breathe in breathe in breathe in breathe in and you know David Bowie's face is like hey hey hey and then she hugs it to her chest and that's all beside the point because mostly she is listening, that hung-over wrung-out simmer-simmer energy aside.

"Thank you," she says, and look. Tamsin. There are a few things Tamsin is very good at, or least: things that Tamsin does. This is one: that thoughtful dream-hooked look, pensive, considering; slant of light over the dark. Put pieces of a story together find the shape of it hear something investigate. Thank you: for finding her shirt. Or, and see, here, a smile for Melantha: "Yours is too. Melantha sounds like Elvish; well..." No, Tamsin, do not dissertate on fantastical linguistics. "Well, it sounds like it could be Elvish or mean something like honeycomb light on dew on honeycomb. Um, so."

"I've been having weird dreams, too." She is very solemn and serious is Tamsin, grave-grave-grave, even if she is hugging a David Bowie Labyrinth shirt. "Has the world looked different to you guys after you wake? When did, um, like when did it start for you?"

Because even if it isn't a connected weird dreamy chain thing it's a strange coincidence and Galliards are interested in dreams. Prophecy. Glory. Yes.

Erich Reinhardt

Annnd Tamsin's having dreams too. Welp, it is now well and fully beyond the realm of coincidence. Erich sits up, removing his arm from around Melantha's shoulders. Really, the two of them are so different; what on earth was his arm doing around her shoulders anyway? It's not even different the way Erich and Charlotte are different, the boy so solid and real and right here in your face; the girl so light and eldritch and maybe floating where dreams and nightmares are born. They're different, yes, but at least they look kind of similar, they look like they could be brother and sister, in fact.

Erich and Melantha: nothing at all in common between them. Nothing at all, except

maybe

the savagery.

Not chthonic in his case. Thunderstorms, in his case, thunderstorms over vast stretches of golden grain and cornsilk waving in the air, the stalks and leaves trembling as that hot wet august wind comes blasting out of nowhere. That's his brand of savagery; that and of course the brand of savagery one always thinks of when one sees someone who is tall and broadshouldered and blond and blue and as son of Vikings as he is. Anyway; we're way off topic.

Erich sits up. He takes his arm from around Melantha's shoulders but he is still sitting right next to her, his feet planted wide enough that his knee brushes hers. He leans elbows on those knees and furrows.

"Like... last week maybe? It's only the past few nights that were like, bam bam bam, same dream every time. I keep dreaming about waking up in a room that's full of sunlight, and it's really nice but I'm all ... coiled up and waiting for something that's just on the horizon. Melantha's dreaming about -- well, she can tell you. What was your dream about?"

Melantha Argyris

The shirt has David Bowie on it from Labyrinth, and Melantha brightens a little, smiling. She likes that movie. She wishes it had like, a single positive female-to-female interaction but it's about a girl and the girl is a leader and she grows up and it's all about not letting yourself be controlled and about seeing through illusions and about what Really Matters and about how growing up doesn't mean pretending you were never a child and sometimes you still have to be a child and the whole movie gives a GIANT middle finger to manipulative, abusive guys who think that if they give you enough presents they own you and it's just, it is, it's so good and she is happy to see it.

Even if she looks really worn out right now.

Tamsin says her name sounds Elvish. Melantha gives a sort of lopsided little smile. "It's Greek. It means 'dark flower'."

And then she says she's been ghaving weird dreams, too. And the world looking different. Melantha's brow furrows, tight and worrisome. "Almost a week ago?" she answers, unsure of the exact night. She looks a little forlorn when Erich get up, stops propping her up, stops holding her. Not for long. Not deeply. She decides he's wrong, so she lays her head on his shoulder again, he can just deal with it, right? Right.

"Mine's awful," she says. It's not sunlight and a warm bedroom and apprehension. "I'm at the edge of some woods, and there's a road but I'm not walking on it. It starts to snow, but it's not snow: it's ash. And there's smoke curling up from somewhere and I can't remember something that's happened, but I know someone's dead." There's a pause. "I also dreamt about a face in a bathroom mirror at work and a bulb going out and that was a little nightmarish, but I haven't been having it anymore. The one by the woods is the one I keep having.

"When I wake up I can't stop tasting ashes. Like, I taste it right now."

Tamsin Hall

" - well." Tamsin lets the Bowie shirt hang around her shoulders and neck like a scarf. Melantha: her blood is so, so wild - so Maenad-pure, so Virago-savage, so moonlight-dappled, so Grape-leaf crowned, so, so, so seeds-in-the-earth - an intimidating corona of Heroines. Tamsin looks at her and Erich together. The contrast of it. Tamsin: plants her palms on the edge of a washer and hauls herself up so she is sitting on it and facing the pair. Pulls her feet up too so she is sitting cross-legged and she can rest her elbows on her knees and cup her chin in the palm of her hand as she listens.

There is a little echo of recognition when Erich says that the last few nights bam bam bam bam same dream every time. And then there's a shock of uncertain recognition, stone-thrown-in-water, ripple-splash, when Melantha says: someone's dead.

"March 15th. Saturday." Tamsin remembers exactly: perfect recall. "That's when I think my dreams began to be strange you know. I wrote a song about them on the third morning, but - " a pause. "Um, well. I won't sing it now, just …" Her gaze does not go distant but she is remembering, remembering, crinkles up her nose. Says, and look, man, look, Tamsin, she falls into Galliard story-telling rhythms as easily as some people fall into a rhythm walking, just walking down the street, like she cannot help herself.

"My dream," she says: "First there were roads winding like a snarl of thread taken out've somebody's pocket. Roads that turn and turn and turn and turn and never-end, those roads, you know, that twist in on themselves, and gates falling, gates failing, a crumble of gates, a relic of gateways, and there were sails too full of a wind that wanted the west that stayed fast to the west's side a westering wind and the light was failing. I woke and the world was wrong, I didn't remember the world: that was a dream that I dreamed. But who was I when I woke?"

"My dream," she says: "Second I stood and there was a lake with sea-light in it. But no: what light? The light was failing, Erich, the light was dawning, Melantha, failing toward dawn, I do not know, it came from the side, side-long, would barely touch this bowl of darkness on which I stood. Mountain-side, valley below, but all I could taste was longing, all I could feel was longing, all there was, it was longing while the wind came down to raw-scratch my skin and I heard -- what I do now know. I woke and the world was light. I woke and I did not forget."

Galliard-voice drops: "The song is fucking awesome, b-dubs. You guys should come hear me at the Meadowlark."

Maybe that was just avoidance of this. "My dream. Third. I think it was third. Third: The lake again. The sea-light lake. The lake that is not the sea but wants to be salt. The wind: how it comes tumbling and bitter and the light and the longing, but now, but this time, fire. That's what I hear and that's what I know: green-wood burning, green-wood turning to cinder, to spark, to a tangle of smoke, and do you know? The dead do not know, just the -

"I dream that the water is ice and dark and dark and ice but there is a place where the ice is thin and I take up a hatchet and -

"I wake again. When I pick up a knife to butter bread, I can feel the handle splintering in the palm of my hand. I can feel it."I wake again. When I pick up my guitar, when I cradle its neck, I can feel the handle splintering in the palm of my hand. I can feel it."I wake again. When I pick up my shoes, I can feel the wood handle splinter in my hand. The crack of it.

"All day long, I touch things and the handle splinters in my hand and I don't know where the blow."

"That was this weekend. Last night I dreamt a road again. A salt-road, but there is no sea; just a Mountain; it has been a Mountain forever, it was the first thing to cast a shadow - and right now, speaking to you two - "

" - right now - "

" - I am tasting salt."

Tamsin says nothing for a second, for two, after that. Then she clears her throat and says: "So, um, yeah."

Evans

[nightmarez]

Dice: 7 d10 TN7 (1, 1, 3, 5, 5, 6, 8) ( success x 1 )

Erich Reinhardt

So. Um.

Tamsin is a Fianna Galliard. She proves it now. Erich tells the story of his dream in a few broad strokes, all rambling sentences and incomplete phrases. Melantha at least sounds like she can string a narrative together, but even then her story is spare and sparse; perhaps on some level she doesn't want to go into detail. Who would? She's dreaming of death and ashes. And also, apparently, of faces in the mirror which kind of freaks Erich out and makes him just sway sideways to shoulder-bump her in unspoken support and commiseration.

And then Tamsin.

Tamsin, who weaves a story-spell with her voice. Tamsin, who paints pictures so vivid that at one point Erich just gives in to the temptation and closes his eyes to better imagine it. It could be a moot. It could be sixth grade camp and they are telling stories around the fire, only the camp counselors were never this good. It's not a very scary story, just deeply, deeply evocative, and Erich doesn't mind trying to imagine. He tries to see the lake, the bowl of it a dark entity in itself. He tries to see the mountain, which is so mighty it is a Mountain. He tries to feel wood splintering in his hand over and over, opens his eyes, looks to his palm.

He almost feels a little disappointed. Their dreams are so exotic and vivid and strange. His -- like himself, perhaps -- is plain, and good, and humble.

There is a small silence when Tamsin is done. Then:

"I was telling Melantha," he says, "that maybe we should try to ... y'know. Try to realize we're dreaming while we're dreaming. And then consciously try to ... do stuff? Like figure out what's burning or who died. And figure out what I'm waiting for. And figure out what you're supposed to do with the hatchet. Or something. I don't know." He's literal-minded.

Evans

Samantha Evans is something of a doer. Which is either the reason she has so many things to do in her life, or a product of ending up with so many things to do in her life. She is busy, she keeps busy, and so she hasn't been to the Cold Crescent much since that whole thing at the bar a bunch of months ago. The aftermath was a bit of a bear for her, but that was then and this is now and now...

Now she is tired. It's Sunday and it's been quiet, and it's mostly been quie. Because tired.

But sometime last week she contacted Tamsin to meet her about a thing but Tamsin was elsewhere. It just so happens that she tried again, sometime between Tamsin leaving the building and Tamsin returning for a shirt, that Sam contacted her again. She has something for her can they meet up? Oh you're going there? Cool...cool I'll be there soon, I think.

It's a while later that a set of elevator doors opens to let in a five-foot tall kinswoman (five feet and two inches in these boots, thank you very much), permitting her access to the upper levels. The doors close and she's looking at the number buttons on the panel before she realizes oh hey. Where?

So, closed into the elevator still waiting on the first floor, Samantha pulls out her phone to fire off a quick text.

"Here what floor?"

Erich Reinhardt

[heads up folks: i need to sleep in 25 min!]

Melantha Argyris

So: Tamsin tastes salt, and Melantha tastes ashes. Tamsin feels wood splintering in her hand. Melantha feels tears on her face when she wakes.

She listens, and her reactions -- her thoughts -- are harder to read. She does not think much of being looked at now, of being scrutinized, and she is mulling over what she hears in a far more regimented, analytical way than Erich is. She is seeking patterns. She is seeking understanding. And give her this: the imagery would be more beautiful, more appreciated, if she weren't waking up every day knowing that someone was dead, and that she has forgotten what happened, and everything around her smells like smoke and tastes like ash,

until she is wondering what solid form created the ash.

"And I was telling Erich," Melantha adds, "that I'm not sure I can." She cheats a glance his way, then looks back at Tamsin, who is the Galliard in the room, and Melantha knows enough to know that Galliards are born dream-walkers, even if Erich is the higher in rank. "But I also haven't tried," she admits.

Melantha Argyris

[I'm not long for this world either, sadly.]

Tamsin Hall

"Maybe Erich you're waiting for the wind to come; or the dark. Maybe you're waiting for whatever comes first; maybe you're waiting for the word of - huh." Tamsin: she is totally going to unpuzzle this. "If I'm on the mountain, and there's fire - if you, um, you-Melantha is by the wood and the ash is falling on her; if you're where the light isn't slanted, where the light's falling but not failing, and you're just waiting - huh." Her phone buzzes, and Tamsin looks startled for a moment, before peeling it out've her jeans. Her jeans are beginning to fray; she needs to fix the cuffs of them. "Face in a mirror at work, was that first? Because my first dream - that's when the world was all - that's when it was like I didn't - like maybe I didn't remember perfectly."

Neither Erich or Melantha knows what a nightmare that is to Tamsin: Tamsin, who believes she needs to remember everything, or else, Tamsin who is dutiful and a perfectionist and andand. Tamsin looks at her phone, and then texts a reply.

Laundry Room. [whatever floor that is.]

"We could try that. I think I'm somebody else when I - but we could try that. Try remembering each other's names in the dreams, anyway. Or ... well, you guys want to give it a go tonight and then like, have breakfast or something to talk about it tomorrow?"

Tamsin Hall

ooc: er, like maybe I didn't remember things perfectly, even

Erich Reinhardt

"I'm totally gonna give it a go tonight," Erich says. "It's okay if we can't change anything. Or if we don't even remember that we're dreaming, or whatever. But we should try it and -- yeah. Let's meet up for breakfast tomorrow and see how it went."

On that note Erich unfolds up out of that little plastic bucket-chair. Because his laundry's almost done, see: the little red countdown is at 0:01 and any second now the dryer will stop and a godawful buzzer will go off and Erich wants to go get his laundry before that happens.

"Though, we live up in Evergreen," he adds. "So if we don't make it down tomorrow or you don't make it up or whatever, I'll just text you."

Evans

Samantha knows where the laundry room is. She's stayed on the dormitory floor here once upon a time (twice upon a time? yes, after the bar and also after the night she drove Fern to Forgotten Questions). She smiles a little, not at the thought of those nights but at the thought of the laundry room. It smells like detergent and fabric softener and it usually feels so warm and cozy after someone's done a few loads.

She punches a button on the panel, slips her phone into her pocket, and up she goes. Then the doors slide open and she's on the floor she wants to be on, and she makes her way to the laundry room where Tamsin is. Samantha is dressed tonight in a lime green hooded sweatshirt unzipped to reveal a black t-shirt with a white circle containing an eye with the word ERUDITE beneath. Jeans and ankle-high boots complete the outfit, and her hair is down, more or less hiding the piercings in her ears. Her face, though, is clear of make-up for once, and so she looks just as tired as she feels.

She lights up when she sees Tamsin, though.

"Tamsin hey."

Melantha Argyris

[sorry this is so short, guys, I'm really drowsy and need to bow out after this]

She nods. "I'll try, too," which is as good as a more dramatic vow. She looks at Erich getting up, and heading over to the dryer, and she doesn't stand up right away but after a few more seconds she does, because she's going to help carry things down and maybe she'll grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen before she tries driving back home.

When she does get up, she crosses to Tamsin, offering her hand with a straight arm behind it. "It was good meeting you, Tamsin," she says, all respect through the veil of weariness.

Tamsin Hall

"I thought it was just me," Tamsin says. She flexes her hands; feels, again, the splintering which - it was just a little thing to feel (but so, so solid, bitterness on her tongue). But it put her off for a day, and a weekend, and maybe: maybe she can blame some of the weekend on her hands. "I'll totally, um, come up, ain't a problem. Is Charlotte also having weird dreams? Hey Sam! Erich found my shirt!!"

The Hey Sam is bright and pleased and Tamsin's a fey-thing, right, Tamsin with her dark-short hair, all solemn and serious and falling into story-telling, into poetry, but like there's happiness in that Hey Sam! because Samantha Evans is totally the best.

Melantha and Erich live together and they're both getting up, preparing to head-off, maybe, so Tamsin, she says: "Um, yes, tell Charlotte I said hey if you see her or I guess even if you don't, okay? It was good meeting you too."

Erich Reinhardt

"You know, I have no idea if Charlotte is dreaming too. I'm gonna go ask her. Honestly I didn't even know Melantha was having weird dreams 'til like 20 minutes ago, so.

"Hey, Sam," Erich echoes; he remembers the woman, vaguely, from a long-ago Giant Jenga game. God, that feels like a lifetime ago. Not in a bad way. It just does. "Sorry I'm not sticking around. Catch up later, 'kay?"

And with that, an Erich, a Melantha, and a load of laundry exeunts.

Evans

Sam remembers Erich from giant Jenga, and from Tommy T's, and from the night with the ghost child. But Erich only remembers her from giant Jenga and that's okay. She says, "Thanks for finding Tamsin's shirt," and moves aside to let him and the girl she's never met pass, her attention on the Galliard.

"I have something for you."

Melantha Argyris

[thank you for the RP guys. i'm gonna go drop.]