( honestly? the scene makes it look like some kind of occult bullshit.
he stands there, just beyond it, wondering if he's made some kind of mistake. no, the flowers in the elevator had been real, and that had been blood magic, plain and simple; the other things that esikko has done haven't been fabrications or lies, either, not the things that he's witnessed. so it isn't like esikko's lost his marbles or something, or like he's claimed some book of the devil to draw a summoning circle out of pig's blood and rabbit fur; the thought does make his mouth press together, fighting against a placid smile.
no, whatever this is, it's a real kind of magic. just nothing he's ever believed in--which isn't all that peculiar, considering that he believes in so little.
he's dressed like he dragged himself out of bed; there's an oversized black hoodie draped over him, the hood itself pulled up over messy hair, and he's got on a pair of slim black pants on underneath, bare feet pushed into slides. his gaze rolls over the scene in front of him, like he isn't sure where he can even move without messing something up: so he stays, resolute, stranded in place. )
Kinda was hoping I'd never see that again. ( with a glum, playful nod towards the jar he knows is the one he hacked his flower guts into. )
You wanna tell me where I can go? I don't wanna get in the way of your show, little prince.
( he lifts both of his hands up, sleeves sliding, as though surrendering himself to be moved and placed by esi as needed. )
no subject
he stands there, just beyond it, wondering if he's made some kind of mistake. no, the flowers in the elevator had been real, and that had been blood magic, plain and simple; the other things that esikko has done haven't been fabrications or lies, either, not the things that he's witnessed. so it isn't like esikko's lost his marbles or something, or like he's claimed some book of the devil to draw a summoning circle out of pig's blood and rabbit fur; the thought does make his mouth press together, fighting against a placid smile.
no, whatever this is, it's a real kind of magic. just nothing he's ever believed in--which isn't all that peculiar, considering that he believes in so little.
he's dressed like he dragged himself out of bed; there's an oversized black hoodie draped over him, the hood itself pulled up over messy hair, and he's got on a pair of slim black pants on underneath, bare feet pushed into slides. his gaze rolls over the scene in front of him, like he isn't sure where he can even move without messing something up: so he stays, resolute, stranded in place. )
Kinda was hoping I'd never see that again. ( with a glum, playful nod towards the jar he knows is the one he hacked his flower guts into. )
You wanna tell me where I can go? I don't wanna get in the way of your show, little prince.
( he lifts both of his hands up, sleeves sliding, as though surrendering himself to be moved and placed by esi as needed. )