You have spent the last few days on Thesa Station, taking in the knowledge that your world is no more. Perhaps you've made some friends (or maybe an enemy or two). Either way, you aren't expected to spend all of your time on the Station. El Nysa needs you, after all, and you promised you'd help the planet thrive. Are you ready?
Submit an AC-eligible thread with a new character as a participant for 2 OLYMPIA REP POINTS OR 2 WYVER REP POINTS, respectively, HERE or HERE. THESA STATION
All refugees on the station are called to the hangar where a large-scale teleporter has been set up; everyone will be sent to the planet together. Simply step onto the space between the arrays and wait. Before they depart, all new refugees will be given a starter kit!
 You may have heard about earlier technical difficulties, but don't worry. I promise everything is in perfect working order this time. I'd say I tested it myself, but since that's not exactly possible, you'll just have to trust me! (Please.)
The older refugees will also be there to guide you to ensure no one is left confused... or behind. Make sure you wait for them — I've been detecting something odd so I'll be having them meet you at the landing site. Good luck, refugees! Not that you'll be needing it or anything...
The arrays begin to hum and glow, quickly building into a brilliant wash of light. It creates a column that travels all the way from Thesa Station to the surface of El Nysa. With the night sky as a canvas, the beam can be seen all the way from Olympia and Wyver — a view that has the natives whispering of blessings.
As a sudden but beautiful aurora splays across the sky, the refugees down on the planet receive a message asking them to travel to the landing site — and warning them to prepare for what may come of the strange readings Zasere's gotten from the teleport itself.
Traveling through the light leaves the impression of blinding starlight, a strange sense of weightlessness, and a disorienting moment of total sensory deprivation. The radiance of your teleport hangs bright in the sky above you, a shimmering aurora that reflects off the calm waters below, visible for miles all around.
You've landed on a peninsula to the east of the South Outpost. There's little here — scattered trees on spring-barren plains, with a few overgrown, dilapidated structures poking out of the brush. All is quiet save for the keening of animals and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. This lonely desolation is hardly the bustling cities and vibrant cultures you were promised back on the station...
BY CAMPFIRE'S GLOW. But waiting for you is a group of your predecessors, and with them, a veritable tent city, with portable stoves, coolers of food and drink, comfortable bedrolls, and cheerful rings of bonfires — all that you need to make merry of the night, courtesy of Overseer Voss, who has, thanks to his interest in blessed meteorological phenomena and refugees, decided to make a holy expedition of the affair.
Settle in, meet new comrades, and enjoy yourself, for you've safely completed your journey. But don't wander too far from the fires — the dark is closing in, and there's a strange, electric feeling in the air, the scent of ozone drifting on the breeze. And what were those odd readings Zasere mentioned?
A SHEPHERD OVER THE FLOCK. The spring sun dawns on a grey morning, already burning away the fog rolling in off the sea. It quickly becomes apparent that Voss and his entourage of acolytes have been up for hours, hard at work. They've set up a brightly-draped stage and a travel pulpit, magically enchanted to amplify his voice, and as the sun breaks over the horizon, Voss is all set to do what he does best: proselytize.
 As our Goddess has sent Her blessing once before to herald the coming of those touched by Her light, so She has done once again! Here you see them, those surrounded by the light of our Goddess, each of them bearing the mark upon their skin of Her holiest of hands! Do you not see? Do none among you bear witness to the righteousness of Her message? Perhaps this is why our people have shamed themselves in front of our Goddess—
[ He continues for another 15 minutes... ]
Nevertheless. See you them before us now! See them as they are, coming to our gates with Her reminder, that these people must be treated with the utmost respect and care. Thesa's divinity is not to be treated with such flagrant disregard! Those who She chooses are not ours to use as mindless fodder, to hurt, to torture — shame upon those who allowed such deeds to shame us under Her watchful gaze!
To those of you who have just arrived here on our doorstep, be not afraid! The Temples of Thesa welcome you to our home with hearts and minds open! Should you ever find yourself in need of solace, seek out the Temples, as there are no greater allies to you than those of us within the Temple walls. You are welcome all to Olympia!
As he steps away from the enchanted podium, he can be heard saying aside to an acolyte, "How was that? Heavy on the shame, but I think it went well!" While he will not leave the area immediately, his acolytes will politely turn away attempts to speak with him and remind anyone interested that they can leave a message at the Temples.
Despite going off without hitch, the new refugees' arrival isn't entirely without incident. It seems that the "blessed" beam of light that brought the refugees down to El Nysa brought something else along with it — a sliver of the Storm. At least the beam was short enough that only a small fraction managed to squeeze through.
But it's enough to wreak a little havoc around the landing site and along the road back toward Olympia and Wyver — and even, for a few days, in the cities themselves.
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. The Storm is an undeniably destructive force, and that's proven with this small sliver's effect as it ripples across the continent. While there's no visible sign of its presence, strange phenomena soon begin to appear, corresponding with Zasere's odd readings.
They're innocuous little things at first. A sudden silence, animals going quiet, insects stilling. All technology, no matter how advanced, ceases working. You discover when you check with a friend, the clock on your phone is twelve minutes slow even though you'd swear only a minute had passed — time missing. Walking through the woods takes longer than it should when brushing past one bush leads to brushing past that same bush again — and again, and again, the area looping on itself. It keeps you trapped, going in circles for minutes, even hours, before finally releasing you in a random direction.
Or perhaps you'll feel a sense of deja vu, like you've walked down this road, taken this turn, seen that bird fly from this branch before. This is the second time that cat has crossed your path. The person you're meeting, you already know their name; you're certain you've already met.
WE GOT COWS. The Storm sliver also ushers in sudden, localized weather anomalies — heavy storms, blizzards, strong winds, and more. Affected areas range from just a few feet wide to nearly half a mile. One minute, the sky may be sunny and clear, but the next dark storm clouds roll in, unleashing torrential rain. Small tornadoes surge along the road, kicking up winds strong enough to knock people over and carry objects away. Hail hurtles down from the sky, but only in a ten foot radius. Temperatures fluctuate wildly between one extreme and the next, from heat waves to cold snaps. Soupy fog blankets the area, thick enough that you can barely see your hand in front of your face. Good luck finding your way!
FORGETTING IS SO LONG. The visions come on suddenly and with very little warning. One second, you're carrying on as normal — but the next, you blink and find yourself (and anyone near you) somewhere else completely. You may recognize this place as a moment from the past, one that you lived through. It's a memory, your memory, and it now replays around you in exceptional detail, unnervingly lifelike. Or you may not recognize it at all. It might belong to the person next to you, or to someone else entirely — a memory that the Storm has swallowed up.
Either way, the scene plays out just as it once did, and there's nothing you can do to stop it — or escape it. The memory surrounds you to no end: every door you open leads nowhere, every hallway you turn down continues on forever, every horizon you flee toward hangs just out of reach. And linger too long or turn the wrong corner, and you may find yourself abruptly stuck in a completely different memory. It's almost tempting, then, to give up, to let the past sweep you away...
But this isn't the full might of the Storm. Look closely, and you can see that in the walls of this trap, there are minute, hairline cracks, a facade of fractured glass. Imperfections in the memory where the real world is breaking through. It seems the only way to escape these memories is to find those cracks and break through them — by force, by will, or by some other method entirely.
The time is coming to make a choice — perhaps not a permanent choice, but unless you want to spend the rest of your nights out under the stars, you'll need to pick which city you will initially spend your time in. On the horizon, you will see that people have arrived to help you make that decision...
A FORK IN THE ROAD. Refugees and the hyper-religious wishing to hear Voss speak are not the only ones out and about under the light of the aurora. Citizens of both Olympia and Wyver have flocked to a point on the road midway between the cities and where the refugees have appeared, and they all have the same goal in mind: convincing the newcomers who have just descended in the blessed light of Thesa to come to their city and not the other.
They've come with bribes — that is, examples of what their cities have to offer. If you spent much time at the exhibition up on Thesa Station, you might recognize some of what's being shown off, though the offerings here are markedly more tangible, and shown off by hawkers wearing substantially fewer clothes.
A herd of pegasi accompanies the Olympians, while a line of flying serpents is stabled at a tent bearing Wyver colors. Refugees are given the chance to experience solo flights and are told that if they prove their loyalty, they may have the privilege of owning such fine beasts one day themselves. The Olympians have also brought couture clothing, jewelry, and makeup to offer a taste of Olympian splendor, while the Wyver delegation has brought along fine weapons, sense-enhancing jungle plants, and small vials of diluted dragon’s blood (drinking confers a temporary boost in strength) to demonstrate their might. The Olympians speak proudly of the glory of the Temples of Thesa; the Wyverns speak of the Volkkran Pact and inform newcomers that they can make a pilgrimage to the summit of Namarak Mountain at the next full moon.
This is as good a time as any to compare your plans with others around you and exchange contact information before going your separate ways with people who are going to the city you are not. When you’re ready to go, don’t worry about safe passage — the natives of each city will gladly escort you there in luxury.
OF WHITE AND GOLD. The people of Olympia are ecstatic that you’ve come to join them... So much so that they’ve prepared a grand tour of the city for the new arrivals. You will be introduced to the major businesses in the city, including businesses that they are proud to point out were founded by refugees.
Refugees who have been here for some time already are encouraged to pair up with newcomers to introduce them to the parts of the city they like best. To facilitate this, they’ve made arrangements with many of the business owners: new refugees who visit their shops (and older refugees who escort them) are given discounts!
Just a few examples of many: the Wyvernest offers free desserts to first time visitors with the purchase of a drink, refugees who visit the Silk Wyrms can have one custom (though not exceedingly expensive) outfit made for them for free, and visitors to Shades Darker are offered a half-hour session with one of the prostitutes at half price… or access to a private room, if they seem to have taken a shine to one of their companions on the tour.
Lastly, tour guides will point out that over the course of the next week, the train to Flona Cove will allow new refugees to board for free so that they can experience the seaside for themselves. With the weather finally starting to warm, this is as good a time as any for a visit to the beach, isn’t it?
OF RED AND BLACK. Life in Wyver is typically a sink-or-swim sort of experience — but in light of the valor recently displayed by their predecessors, the natives are now more willing to assist in getting newcomers settled. The entire journey here they have been talking up the virtues of their city… and now is the time to show everything that's on offer.
The well-known businesses in the city are prepared for the influx of newcomers. Some are giving out discounted samples of their products while others are offering a more hands-on experience: in exchange for working a few hours, they will give training in whatever task is being performed.
At the Forged, newcomers can learn the basics of crafting simple weapons (and take one of their successes home), while visitors to spas near the lagoons are trained in the art of massage. Those who wander to Falmi’s Ring can learn the art of pugilism or how to keep (and fix) books if they're more inclined to the gambling that goes on. Newcomers interested in Wyver's dragons can get hands-on experience at the Fields of the Exalted's nursery. While they walk from place to place, a guide may point out a job posting from Highwind Hires, noting that refugees can make a name for themselves outside official channels.
The last stop on the tour is the Undergrowth. The guides speak of the jungle in reverent tones and caution new refugees not to wander too far in. They warn never to explore alone, but also urge refugees to take time to familiarize themselves with it; after all, the jungle is an important part of life in Wyver, and those who are going to be living here should understand it as well as they do.
You've chosen your path, refugee, but that doesn't necessarily make it a permanent one. Watch out for the strange effects of the Storm, which linger still in the two cities and everywhere in between for the next few days before dissipating just as mysteriously as they came, but otherwise enjoy the welcome and make yourself at home — after all, this is home now.
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Uh - beg pardon?
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Hmm?
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Who's - the Turtle?
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[Richie gives him a sound squint.
He looks the door over again. His earlier apprehension is dissipating. Somehow this office is starting to wear at his nerves. Prickling. Claustrophobic.]
Maybe we should give it one more try.
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You just did. You looked like you were a hundred kilometers away and then said that the Turtle wouldn't allow it.
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Seems to me the boy's lost his marbles.
[He takes strides to the door, as if compelled by a bravado bigger than himself. He flings it open and for a half mad second, expects to see the wide plastic face of Paul Bunyan leaning down to peer inside. "I'm gonna eat you right the fuck up—"
But instead, it's the woods. Darkening skies, and a small boy approaching an abandoned Amana fridge with a coil of clothesline clutched tight in hand. Blood has been splattered along the path up to its door. Too much blood.
The boy was the same one from the bicycle, Big Bill Denbrough. Stuttering Bill as the rest of the school knew him. Stuttering Freak, Mushmouth.
Another voice floats through to the Emperor's office, from a gaggle of children out of sight. "You could bring Chief Borton and Mr. Nell and a hundred other cops down here and it still wouldn't matter."
Richie stiffens in the doorframe.]
Stan?
[He ducks through as his own self chimes in, pitch upped by baby vocal chords but with the same cavalier shit he slung as a grown up. "Nope, they wouldn't see a frockin thing. How's your arm, Bev?"
"Hurts. Would my Mom and Dad see the hole that thing made in my arm?"
"I d-d-don't th-think s-s-so. Get reh-ready to ruh-ruh-run. I'm gonna t-t-tie it uh-uh-on."
When Byerly deigns to join him, he'll get the full view of all six children. Beverly, preternaturally beautiful with her red curls pulled back into braids and a crimson patch of gauze held over one arm. Mike with his dark skin that made him a bullseye among easy targets, owl-eyed and in his farm overalls. Richie in his dweeby glasses, Ben Hanscom in the sweater he used to disguise his wide gut and flabby boy tits. Grown up Richie has beelined to a fastidious looking boy, whose shirt is buttoned to the collar and wears less scrapes and scuffs than the rest of the lot, even the curls atop his head were neater than a child's should be. A tiny adult among reckless youths.
Richie stands by him, unable to look away. Jaw clenched tight and his hands in his pockets.]
...It's supposed to be seven. Eddie's still in the hospital.
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[ Aren't they a raggedy bunch. Not in the way children should be, either. There's a certain look that kids have when they have scraped knees, when they've pushed each other to the ground, when they're in nasty little scuffles. There's a different sort of look when they're absolutely at the end of their rope. He remembers it from his cousin Donna's face, after Richars had talked all the grown-ups into believing that she'd killed her own puppy in a hysterical fit. A look of such utter exhaustion and despair that it seemed like she wouldn't even go on. It hadn't eased until Byerly had gone to her and told her, quietly, I believe you.
God. "Would they see the hole it made in my arm." This goes beyond adults' idiocy, their susceptibility to smooth-talkers and sociopaths. Not just being fooled - being completely unable to see. There's something chilling about that, something far more terrifying than a slavering wolf-thing. He imagines, for a moment, being one of those adults, standing beside a child getting ripped apart, ensorcelled, unable even to notice, and he wants to heave.
Richie's warning, that knowing puts him in danger - well, to hell with that. He's glad to have seen it, glad to know of its monstrosity. To be blind to evil is worse by far than to fall to it. ]
Good heavens, those glasses truly don't suit you. You've really come up in the world in terms of sartorial choices.
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[They'd been growing used to it, returning back as grown men and one grown woman. Being a man short. They were two short by the early morning, with Mike seeing the bad end of Henry's blade and landing himself in the E.R. But as kids it ought to be the whole gang. He can feel that unnatural sense of togetherness even as a shade from the future. He can feel the gap where Eddie should be.
It's his memory though, not Byerly's. This man wasn't part of their curious circle. Perhaps none of this nebulous surety comes through with the same weight for him. Didn't come with the Day Pass, he reckons.
Richie gives a tortured groan at the potshot. He stops moping at phantom Stan for long enough to shoot a withering look at his younger self. It's worse than he remembers: his eyes seem to take up a third of his face, magnified and fuzzed at the edges by the heft and curve of the lenses. What a blight upon the land.]
God, I fucking hated those things. I would have given my left nut for perfect vision. Still would, as a matter of fact. Maybe my squadron of little Richies would be halved but at least I wouldn't have wasted my youth as a bug-eyed Cretin.
[Beyond them, little Bill ties the string to the fridge handle with overcautious fingers.]
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[ Hypocrisy, of course. No one in By's Barrayaran generation is gene-cleaned, and all of them were body-births, from the Emperor on down. They're as barbaric and as brutish in their practices as Old Earthers were before they even ventured into space. Hell, Byerly probably has more hidden mutations in his perverse Vorrutyer genome than Richie does. But a fellow wants to feel superior sometimes.
And speaking, also, of keen eyesight - He does want to get this question out before that door comes open, before whatever monster lurking inside bursts out. It's not like he needs to know this, because the little curly-haired boy isn't here with him. But he wants to decode that wistful glance that Richie has been turning on the child. ]
I'm guessing that one doesn't survive?
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It's 1959! [But of course to this man, that clarifies nothing.] These hoodlums haven't even seen a microwave yet. What, you could clear out crummy eyesight but you couldn't cure the family madness?
[He wasn't exactly being subtle, now was he? So sue him. Richie shakes his head slowly, gaze drawn inexorably back to that diminuitive form.]
No. Stan makes it out as a kid. It's later that he—when Mike made the calls, that the murders were starting up again. He hung up the phone and he took a bath.
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[ By turns a dry smile towards Richie. ]
The mind is a vulnerable, wounded, sick thing. Your mad butcher didn't attack the corneas and retinas of your grown-ups to keep them from seeing. It was their minds, n'est-ce pas? The physical is resilient and straightforward, but the mind so easily shattered.
[ And then, quietly, with less of that drollness - ]
It sounds as though your Stan can attest to that.
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Then there was the insult of that vision in Murkwell Hollow that he'd seen with Boxer. Giggling and wide mouthed with crimson crosses cut into the wrists, glops of old blood squoozing out of the split skin as he laughed and splashed in the swamp...
Then Richie relents. He paints on his own smile, just as dry, twice as bitter.]
You bet. Belief doesn't come easy when the years wear on. Especially if you weren't prone to fancy in the first place.
[The kids wait with bated breath as Bill gives the line a good yank. Richie doesn't duck for cover, nor does he bother to shield Byerly. There's no need this time.
A torrent of fuzzy pom poms, all tangerine orange and ludicrous as all get out, tumble from that decripit fridge. Written inside in thick, dripping blood was a message in a childish scrawl. Finger painting for the criminally insane.
STOP NOW BEFORE I KILL YOU ALL
A WORD TO THE WISE FROM YOUR FRIEND
PENNYWISE
As if answering a summons, the rain begins to fall. Thunder pulses overhead. Bill has split off from the crowd again, red faced.
“W-We’re going to k-k-kill you!”
Tiny Richie tails after, shouting at him to come back. The boy doesn't listen. He screams, this time with no faltering.
“You killed my brother George! You son of a bitch! You bastard! You
whoremaster! Let’s see you now! Let’s see you now!”]
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It is unmanly to ask, of course. A proper Vor ought to be able to withstand terrors and horrors without forewarning; he should be able to stand resolute. Granted, bisexual foppish vain clownish Byerly has never been proper Vor in anyone's eyes, but cultural programming runs deep. Hard to completely kick the expectations that were drummed into you.
But - he asks nevertheless. ]
Are we going to be watching a child die?
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Richie shakes his head. He points to the splattered blood in front of the fridge. There's a trail leading off into the woods. Rumpled underbrush and red spots.]
It's already eaten. Patrick Hockstetter was the last to go, before we followed it down into the sewers. That won't be for a few weeks yet. Beverly heard it happen from a ways off. She said she followed the trail down to a sewer pump, and that there was something like flying leeches around the fridge. That's what nipped her arm. This was just...
[He watches as Bill starts to kick at the pom poms. "Let's see you come out now, you fucker!" When he returns there's hail pummeling the ground like bullets from an unseen army above. He doesn't flinch away, or duck his head. There's tears streaking down his face and dribbling off his chin. Ben slips his arm around him, tells him it's all right as Richie gives his own reassurances.
"Don't worry. We're not gonna chicken out." He turns a meaningful stare to the rest of the crew. "Is there anyone here who's gonna chicken out?"
Not a single one of them takes the bait. They all shake their heads. Bill wipes his eyes and intones, "Ih-It's scuh-scuh-hared of u-u-us, you know. I can fuh-feel th-that. I swear to Guh-God I c-c-can."
"I think you're right," Beverly agrees.]
It's just a warning. It's putting up scarecrows. Trying to get us to buzz off.
[The boy looks plaintively to them all. Desperation only thickens the stutter, and Richie's own throat locks shut in sympathy. "H-H-Help m-m-me. P-P-Please. H-H-Help m-m-me."
One by one the children fold around him. They become a knot of arms, cheeks pressed to hair and foreheads, knobby knees shaking in the cold. Hail bounces off of their backs, but they do not budge. Not even when the ice turns to sheets of rain that soggy up their cotton shirts and blacken their denim. Byerly's question bounces through his mind again and Richie, impossibly, begins to laugh. How could they ever have been made to kill one another? That's lunacy talking. All you had to do was look and you'd know it wouldn't happen.
They would die for each other. In a heartbeat.
His chuckle quells. Richie turns his back to the scene, facing away from his modern day company as he wills the knot in his throat away. Stop the prickle in his eyes. In spite of all efforts he still sounds rough and raw when he speaks.]
I've had about enough of this.
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[ There's a slight relaxation, just a little easing of tension. Good. Just a warning. Not that it's really that much better, what with that it's already eaten, but at least there's no brutal grotesquerie waiting to happen. At least not in this memory, he supposes. Who knows what'll happen in the next one?
And yet there they are, swearing to keep fighting the good fight. Byerly is frightened by the thought of the next memory, and he has the advantage of knowing that Richie comes through it all right. These children in the past, trembling and cold and impossibly, chillingly endangered - they have no way of knowing they'll survive. And yet they're still fighting.
It's a funny thing. Byerly has been thinking of Richie as soft. Hell, he's certainly been treating him as soft. And for what reason? Because he's from Earth, instead of hardscrabble Barrayar? Because he's loudmouthed and absurd? Because he works in entertainment, rather than serving whatever his planet's version of ImpSec is? But this horror is so far beyond anything Byerly ever went through that he can't even fathom it. Facing it would have taken more courage than By has ever had in his life. Fuck's sake, By's never even shown up when he's been challenged to a duel. The fact that Richie went through this, and kept going through it, and stood firm all the while - It makes Byerly feel ashamed.
He turns away from the group, runs a hand through his hair. Asks Richie - ]
Why was it afraid of you? How did you all survive it?
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That's the punchline, Chief. I don't remember.
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Magical interference, I suppose.
[ And then he tilts his head back, and lets a slow breath out of his nose, and says: ]
What we're seeing here - These memories. I'm finding that they're quite a bit more detailed than I remember. And I'm seeing more than I was actually witness to.
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[He's about to say something gullible. Oh gee, you're right, Oscar for cinematography right here. But the implication sits uneasy. Richie looks to him uneasily.]
Instant replay, yeah. So what you're saying is...?
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[ He tucks his hands into his pockets and smiles grimly. It's clear he doesn't relish this prospect, but - what else can they do? ]
Enjoy the holo-drama. See if we can't learn a thing or two.
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Are you sure you want to be here for that?
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[ He presses a hand to his chest in mock-offense. ]
Have you learned nothing by now? I am nothing if I'm not a nosy son-of-a-bitch. I wouldn't miss it for worlds.
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I'd say you're coming around to crazy son of a bitch, myself.
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Mad as a Vorrutyer, as they say back home. [ He takes a breath, thinking - ] Perhaps if you keep it in mind. Think about your mad butcher. Perhaps that'll drive us towards relevant memories.
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[Richie tilts his head to the sky and takes a quaking breath.]
Whoo-boy. All right. I'll keep my head in that direction. [He starts towards the door.] I do remember climbing into the sewer. And Henry Bowers and his plus twos were there.
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Of course, they don't end up in any sewers. Of course not; that's not how this pattern goes. Instead, they're in an attic - one filled with the detritus of astonishing history, fencing swords and battle-standards, saddles and - gruesomely - a healthy collection of bones and mummified flesh. The cluttered repository of a medieval war-clan, just one that happened to have been born thousands of years into the future.
Byerly is there with Nadine. There's a mattress on the floor, dressed with clean sheets, an orderly pile of ready-meals and a portable sonic shower kit and a tablet-projector that's set up to serve as a virtual classroom, cascading light for an immersive experience, a holographic teacher smiling serenely at them. The sleek technology clashes oddly with the detritus around them, to be sure. By is adjusting the settings on the tablet, playing with the teacher's face, turning the woman into a man and then making that man squat and fantastically ugly.
"Do you have to make him look like that?" Nadine sighs. She's young, here - no older than maybe nine or ten.
Byerly, a gangly and skinny twelve, doesn't quite have the smoothness of his adult self, but he certainly has the cheek. He grins, and says, "You know I can't stand it when I'm not the most handsome man in the house."
Nadine sighs noisily, and rolls her eyes hugely. But her exasperation fades a moment later, as she says, a little anxious - "You can stay up here, too."
"What, and miss the chance to spend time with our beloved cousins? Not a chance." He smiles at Nadine, but he's not the actor he'll eventually become, either; there's real worry visible in his eyes. "It'll be good for my future, you know. Getting closer to our cousins."
"Horseshit." She curses very naturally for one so young. ]
Hm. I do remember this one.
[ By's voice is level; this isn't going to turn into anything awful, it seems. ]
We were having a visit. Or a visitation, perhaps.
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