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[ Sick and shaking, his breathing is shallow, the taste of panic lodged in the back of his throat. There's a change in weight that he feels aware of, the familiar impression of Kalmiya's perfume soaking into his lungs with every sharp inhale. For a few moments, he lets himself tilt in her direction across the tether, focuses on taking deeper lungfuls of sweet floral and fruit. Out of the tether, he stares at the rumple of sheets; they look nothing like a rocky shoreline or the pitch dark pull of the ocean at night.

Between those two grounding senses, he can feel the chaotic spin of his thoughts start to slow.

And then immediately climb, as Kalmiya reassures him it was a dream. Letting out a wounded noise, he uncurls himself and reaches for the side table almost instinctively, fingers coming in contact with the red acrylic die. Hands still trembling, he's careful as he rolls it thrice in succession, the weighted plastic making a soft click sound against the tabletop. Three white pips stare back at him for each result and he lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, eyes burning from the flood of emotion.

Releasing the die, he flops onto his pillow, pressing the heels of his palms against his closed eyes. ]

It's never just a dream. [ He finally says, a little hysterically. Like this, with the dream hovering so close in memory, with his eyes squeezed shut, he thinks he can still feel the warmth of Mal's palm against his cheek as she told him she missed him. That they needed to wake up. Blinked away tears on either side track down from the corners of his eyes towards his temples. Stupid, he was stupid for not listening to Kalmiya earlier. ]

You were right. I shouldn't have—can I—[ Swallowing, he tries again, thoughts jumbled and voice raw. ]—is that invite still open?

[She made it worse. How did she make it worse? Kalmiya is familiar with arcane means through which dreams can be made into avenues of violence, but Arthur is from a nonmagical world. Most people appreciate the reminder when something frightening isn't real.

She doesn't understand, but she has no way to reach an understanding right now. Arthur is clearly not in a spot to answer questions. What's important, what's immediate, is that he's in pain. And she may have fumbled her first move, but she told him he wouldn't be alone. Even if that means there's nothing more she can do besides sit with him and keep her mouth shut. Sometimes that's really all one can give; there are some wounds for which there is no further treatment. There's only quiet support and time.

She keeps an even keel, the urgency at the core of her soft words purposeful rather than panicked.] For company? Of course.

Tell me where to go. I'll be there. [She can come to him, she can meet him somewhere, she can stay where she is—whatever he needs. Inconvenience is of no concern to her, be it distance, weather, or Hosts. He was there when she needed someone. She'll kill a thousand Hosts to get to him if that's what needs to be done.]

[ Part of it chafes, that she's able to hold steady while he unravels.

His emotions are as turbulent as the dream-sea, crashing up against the careful walls he's built to compartmentalize and keep everything contained. The spillover makes him feel wholly unlike himself, as if he's staring into a mirror and a different reflection was staring back. This time, he doesn't think it would be precise and eerily perfect. Instead, it would be younger, overwhelmed, every feeling trying to claw its way out at once.

Trying to curb some of it, he holds onto the even tone of Kalmiya's voice, the simple immediacy she answers with. ]

Stay there, I'll–[ Pulling his hands away from his face, he sits up, takes one glance at sheets thrown askew, and like a live wire, has a sudden need to be in motion. ]–I can't be here, right now.

[ It doesn't matter if there's Hosts or if the weather sucks. Anything is better than letting the dream loop through his mind in fragments, the soft press of Mal's lips to his cheek seeming to linger. And staying here meant he would be reminded of how he'd woken up.

So, he dresses quickly, quietly, only pausing long enough to check for a spare clip as he holstered a pistol under his coat. His die gets swept into a trouser pocket before he makes his way out of the townhouse, keeping his steps as silent as possible. Once out in the cold night, the brisk air hurts to breathe in and feels gloriously like relief. All of his attention turns towards an alertness for the wandering Hosts, the background noise of his dream drowned out by the possibility of danger.

He makes it to Kalmiya's doorstep with little incident–one Host, shot right in the head; he barely remembers pulling the trigger–and knocks softly, even though he feels they're both hyper-aware of how close the other person is. ]

[For better or worse, this is what she's good at. Putting away whatever she needs to in order to make sure that others are taken care of. It's not as bitter of a taste when it's someone she likes, though. Someone who cares for her in return, who she knows will do the same when she's the one who needs steadiness and surety.]

Alright, [she concedes, clearly a little worried but willing to accept Arthur's confidence that he can make it in one piece.] I'll be waiting.

[That's another thing she's had to be good at. Though it's harder to sit with the patience of stillness even when it's for someone dear to her.

For now, she settles back into bed to ensure that the covers are still warm if they're needed upon Arthur's arrival. Her eyes close as she aims her focus within. On her lungs expanding and then relaxing with every deep breath; on the chill in her nose she can't entirely stave off; on her left shoulder, resting strangely in its socket from all the times it's been molded into a different shape while stabbing into the fungus-ridden bodies of the Hosts. And most importantly, on the steady warmth of the Tether in her chest, the progress of Arthur's agitated energy as it moves closer and closer. Anything and everything to stay within her own body and stay calm, so that she isn't adding to the chaos in his heart.

It's not precise enough to know the moment he's going to knock, but she can tell when he's close enough that she should get up and greet him properly. So she's ready when he knocks, double-checking through the door's peephole that appearance matches knock before she opens the door with a smile on her lips and concern in her brow.

With a small gesture of the hand, she motions a welcome into the space.] Make yourself comfortable. Or as comfortable as possible, I suppose.

[ Her footsteps are quiet as she tracks to the door, with a telltale pause to verify before she swings it open, gesturing him in. Immediately, the wash of her perfume overtakes his senses, both from her closeness and from the soak of it in her living space; his knees feel weak with relief.

He doesn't let himself collapse just yet, instead taking her invitation with a nod. Wound up as he is, he ends up perching on the edge of her bed, the riot of colors on the rumpled bedspread enough to shake some of the melancholy hanging over him. Truly, it's the most obnoxious blanket he's ever seen, verging on tacky, and he's afraid if he lets out any sound right now–even a laugh–aside from words, the knot in his chest will keep unraveling until there's nothing left.

So, he swallows around the gathering swell in his throat, holding out a hand towards her as she drifts closer away from the door. ]

Could I just–hold you, for a bit?

[Her eyes track him as he moves to sit on the edge of the bed he'd insisted that they build together, her motion to close and lock the door behind him so second nature as to be an afterthought to her attention. She takes an extra moment to test the turn of the knob and the set of the lock into the frame (not terribly sturdy, but they'd have a moment if a violent Host came knocking) before she gravitates to Arthur. The cloud of his gloom has thinned, but she still feels the pressure of something on his horizon.

Something which must be quite heavy, for him to make a request of this nature. He hasn't minded her requests for affection and intimacy thus far, but he hasn't really been an initiator of comforting touch in the same way she has. So this ask prompts a quiet ping of surprise, though naturally she doesn't begrudge him his reservations.

And despite her surprise, there's no hesitation. The corners of her eyes round and soften as she reaches out to set her hand atop his in a gesture of acceptance as she repeats gently,] Of course.

[Memory tugs at her sleeve of another time someone had made a request of her like this—such a simple ask, and yet it felt like he'd been entrusting his very life to her. With quiet footsteps she closes into Arthur's space and sets her opposite hand on his shoulder, her posture relaxed and permissive, so that he might lead her into the embrace most comfortable for him. Her smile is reassuring as she adds,] As long as you'd like.

[ Her surprise is a quiet chime, a query wrapped underneath the initial startle. And while she doesn't let it stop her, his own mind answers with an affirmative—he isn't asking for this lightly and his awareness is drawn too tight to be anything but his own.

The curl of her hand in his is a physical manifestation of their link and he holds on firmly. Only when she steps into his space does he let go, replacing their clasped hands with the curve of his arms around her waist. As he hugs her tight, he leans forward, burying his face against her chest. When he feels the reassuring sensation of her return embrace, gravity presses in, bending his spine to mold them more closely, as if the gentle steel of her own posture was the only thing keeping him upright.

Three and a half years ago, he had this; the balm of Mal's lavender-scented lotion, the scrape of her voice in half-sleep, the two of them laying on her living room rug and talking about the future, about happiness, about dreams.

Much like the architecture collapses in dreaming when the dreamer dies, he feels his own footing start to give. With a shuddering breath, he lets the structure of his heart unravel, allows the grief to well up and flow over, leaving him in free fall.

But, he knows not to expect a kick, a jerking to wakefulness before impact; painfully, miserably aware of reality. ]

[When she twines her arms around him in answer to his reach, he near collapses into her, his very being dragged down by all he's been forced to carry. Though not remarkably strong, thankfully Kalmiya is the sturdy sort, especially in situations like this. She bears the weight easily—physically, and then spiritually as well, when she starts to feel the inevitable pull of gravity at Arthur's end of the tether.

She couldn't save him from the fall in his dream. She can't save him from this one, either. There isn't anything she can say that will make this less painful, no words in any language she knows to ease the primal terror of the freefall that is grief. The only way out is through. All she can do is fall hand-in-hand with him and soften the landing enough that neither of them break when they finally reach the ground.

One arm rests along the slope of his shoulders and the other folds such that she can cradle the back of his head, keeping him close with each gentle stroke of his hair—sweeps with the full cup of her hand, so that she doesn't muss his hair too badly. Leaving some small thing in order for him when all the rest is falling apart. The forward tuck of her shoulders and slight bow of her head give the impression of something like a curtain as she curls around him to the best of her ability, creating a space like the nostalgic shade beneath the dense tendrils of a weeping tree. Respite; privacy; safety.

With her feet rooted in her own body and her hand in Arthur's as he falls, it's a curious duality of sharp winds whipping around her even as she stands in calm stillness. Impressions of flawless auburn curls and lavender and laughter carry on the winds, bringing tears to her eyes as it all rushes past her, as she anchors herself within the current of this pain that is not her own.

When it comes, the core of her voice is sturdy even as it's wrapped in words of gentle silk; one more thing for Arthur to hold onto in the chaos, one more thing to soften the harsh edges of the reality that buffets him.] It's okay.

[Not this situation. Not the loss, the tragedy, or the forbearance of this inevitable fall. But to be here, with her, allowing himself to feel it at all—she repeats it as she cradles his crumpling form. It's okay.]

[ How can it be okay? crosses his mind, all of his usual logic shattered as surely as if it had been pushed over the balcony. There's no way for it to be okay, not with Mal gone, her effusive light snuffed out too soon. They still needed to go to Paris during her favorite season, to subsist off of street crepes and too many pain aux chocolat. To break in the new pairs of matching boots they'd gotten for each other one holiday, completely unplanned, and had broken into hysterics over. She needed to finish the half-full bottle of perfume on her dresser and complain bitterly the formula was different (it wasn't) when she bought a new one.

He needed to find her keys hundreds of thousands more times.

Tears well over, dampening the front of Kalmiya's shirt, and he chokes on a sob as he feels the slow caress of her hand. Little by little, each pass feels like she's sweeping the flood waters back, the suffocating pressure in his chest beginning to lift. And as it does, his awareness drips back in—the curl of her body like a curtain, how she's both steady in the storm and in the sure grip of her hand with his through the tether.

It's okay, because taking the plunge is the first step. It's okay to miss his best friend like a limb, to be more than a bit angry over it, because he's spent over two years not thinking about it at all. Burying it anytime it resurfaced, only allowing himself to skip to accepting it.

Molded so closely, his ears no longer ringing with the deafening sound of grief, he listens to the fixed beat of her heart, letting the muted vibration of it help dictate his own pulse. Pulling in a shivering inhale, he gives Kalmiya a grateful squeeze around the middle, spending another few moments just breathing in the berry-sweet scent of guava and summer warmed jasmine. ]

... Sorry about your shirt. [ To break the tension, though he doubts she's worried about that at all. Voice muffled, he sounds—tired, mostly, but different from the brittle exhaustion of being chased by his mirror. It's more okay; a fragile catharsis. ]

[So many memories they never made. So much opportunity, so much life, stolen away from the both of them. It's hard to hold her own sadness at bay from the heartache and anger that Arthur hasn't let himself feel until now; she's able to keep herself calm, especially in comparison, but she's not made of stone, and her time with those she's loved has shaken up the iron boxes she used to sort everything into. That sedate sorrow trickles from her in the same slow, small trails that her tears make along her cheeks as she holds Arthur.

Still she holds on, and breathes. She's been entrusted with something of unimaginable importance. Ensuring that trust is well-placed takes precedence over everything else in this moment; there will be time later to feel this sadness for her new friend and the lovely woman she'll never know. For now, she focuses on the slowing beat of Arthur's heart, the gradual and exhausted release of the pressure from where it's been compacted down against his bones.

And the squeeze he eventually gives her, and the thing he says that's sort of like a joke, except there's nothing like joy within it. She huffs out a breath of sound that's almost laughter as she gives him a little squeeze in return, subdued but fond in her response.] Oh, please. You know I don't care about making a mess.

[It's hardly the most disgusting thing this shirt has seen.

The motion of her hand over his hair gives way to something smaller, just a gentle stroke of the thumb while her palm stays in place near the nape of his neck.] There's nothing to apologize for. However long you need to feel this—now, or whenever else it finds you...it's okay. I'll be here.

[And the sweet embrace of her limbs impresses that upon the Tether; warmth, acceptance, and open invitation. There's a place for him in her arms whenever he needs it—no need to ask.]

Edited (I JUST DIDN'T PICK AN ICON LMAO?) 2025-09-04 22:35 (UTC)

[ Kalmiya gives him a return squeeze, the circle of her skinny arms somehow more reassuring than a vice. Against his cheek, her chest vibrates softly with the short, quiet half-laugh she gives and he finds it nearly as soothing as the brush of her fingers along his nape. ]

Yeah, I know. [ And that does bring a small, genuine smile to his lips. At this point, he is more than well aware of her blindness to mess. Or in other cases, her near blinding delight of it.

What she says next, though, settles over him like a soft blanket. Within it is the same feeling he used to get when he was young, sharing a haphazard blanket fort with his sister on the cramped lower bunk, trying not to laugh too loudly and get shooed to bed. Kalmiya's warmth soaks through the tether as surely as tea with cake, bleeding across the lines to settle in his bones. ]

... Thank you. [ Arthur pulls away from her front enough to glance up, sincerity shining through. What else could there be to say? The enormity of what she's offered can't possibly be quantified or met with words that would do it justice. He knows she doesn't expect anything in return, because she has a bigger heart than most anyone he's ever met, but there's a sense that transmits across the connection: Likewise. Should she ever need it. ]

[Though it's no great burden to help Arthur hold this weight, it does come as a relief when she feels him smile. When the comfort and sincerity sink in, and she knows that her feelings have not only been understood and taken to heart, but that they've been a balm to this wound that's needed lancing for far too long.

She tilts her chin down to meet his eyes when he pulls back, a content smile on her face as the hand at his nape slides forward to cup his jaw and the gentle stroke of her thumb resumes at the hollow of his cheek. With affection,] It's what friends do, as I recall.

[Of course there's no expectation in return, but that's less a quality of selflessness and more that Arthur has already given her something she couldn't repay no matter how much she gives. He was there when she needed someone, when she had to confront not only the most hated parts of herself but how very alone she's felt in this strange and gluttonous world. Despite their differences, despite the coalescence of his own self-loathsome parts dogging his every step, he came to ensure that she knew she had someone who would be by her side. Even now, with a tug at his exhausted end of the Tether, he reasserts his dedication to that promise.

She can't give anything except her own promise for something like that. And she can't do anything except love a person who's decided to love her like that.

A slight and inquisitive tilt of her head accompanies her easy invitation.] If you would be more comfortable staying here for the night, you're always welcome to.

[ As her hand finds its way to his cheek, he tilts into the cradle of her palm, further soothed by the slow sweep of her thumb. She echoes back his remark about friends (or really, her own, considering) and he smiles in agreement.

He doesn't keep too many friends, for this reason. Because he has never, not once, ever committed to something with less than his whole self. Nearly everything he did was taken to extremes; work, play, love. It meant putting an enormous amount of trust in the person to not take advantage of that. Because it also meant he would show up, every time, through the hell or high water.

Despite how little time he's known Kalmiya, he really does count her among the people he'd chase across the globe, if needed.

It's a well-founded feeling, especially in light of her willingness to let him lean on her for things like this. And for how she follows it up, gently offering for him to stay here, instead of going back to the shared apartment with Freddie and Sharon. Already tired from the long few weeks wrung out from emotion, he doesn't see a reason to turn her down. That, and well: ]

Judging from what happened last time I turned down your sound request, that's probably not a bad idea. [ Look, he's learning.

With reluctance, he lets her go, raking a hand through his hair as the last vestiges of the dream fall away. When the two of them are no longer sharing the same exact space, he'll bend to untie his boots and toe them off, shedding his jacket as he does. ]

[Her lips purse together as a snort of fond laughter escapes her throat.] Don't get too comfortable with my requests. I have plenty of bad ideas too!

[But considering who made the first proposition between them under the blood moon, he likely already knows that not all of her requests are sound!

(Not that she would consider that one bad.)

Given his choice of meeting place, though—I can't be here right now—this seems a more than reasonable suggestion. She can't guess at the details, but there's clearly some factor of his normal base of operations that has made it an unsafe environment for the mental space that Arthur finds himself in. It's better for him not to be there right now if that's the case. And while it wasn't really a motivator for the offer, she feels more at ease too, knowing that she'll be able to do more than just monitor the state of the Tether from afar.

She gives him some space to divest himself of his less comfortable garments. After a moment of consideration and another glance towards the bolted door, she opts to remove her boots, as well. Less likely that she'll need to bolt out of bed ready to run if someone is here to have her back. Along that same line of thought, she breezily volunteers as she pulls the shoes off:] There's a crowbar by the nightstand on this side if you need it. There should be a knife in the drawer, as well.

[He's probably brought his own weapons, but it seems polite to orient him with his options in the event of an emergency.

That said, she props a knee on the edge of the mattress so that she can crawl past him to the other side of the hideous expanse of blanket. The sheets haven't yet gone completely cold since she vacated the bed, so she props both pillows up and then gratefully tucks herself mostly beneath the blanket. Mostly, of course, so that she can extend her arms out in Arthur's direction in a frankly silly invitation to return to her embrace.]

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten how you said you didn't need shelves.

[ He says in amusement, unlatching the holster he had on over his shirt. Setting that aside for now, he tugs his shirt over his head by the collar, unworried about leaving it a rumple on top of his jacket. Left in a plain tee and the dark joggers he'd hastily pulled on, he slips the handgun out of its holster and goes to set it on the nearby nightstand.

Apparently nearby the knife she's got tucked away. And if both of those fail, for some unlucky reason, there's a crowbar by the door. She's prepared. Something like gratefulness and relief settles in him as he watches her get comfortable, blankets rustling with the motions. His eyebrows go up in a small startle when she holds her arms out in a clear invitation, the gesture somehow so whimsical he can't help but huff a laugh.

Well, and crawl into the bed to accept it, sinking down into her embrace. Keeping his full weight off of her, he's tilted just to the side, head pillowed on her chest and a bony shin thrown over hers. One hand skims along her upper arm, palm cupped around her shoulder, thumb idly sweeping along the curve of it. If he were anyone else, this would be weird—it wasn't like most made a habit of cuddling with people they considered friends. But, even though he's keenly aware and protective of personal space—his and others—this kind of easy comfort is something he's used to. He'd grown up with it; he's not afraid to hug his sister. And the amount of times they'd fallen asleep on his bunk or the couch, tucked up close, was nearly uncountable at this point.

So, he relaxes into Kalmiya's hold, radiating a quiet contentment. ]

[Cheeks puffed and mouth pouting, she nonetheless lets Arthur get comfortable before making any complaint. Minor adjustments to the tilt of her body and the set of her weight let her sling an arm snugly over his shoulders, an easy shift for a very practiced cuddler. Friends tend to be synonymous with this kind of thing for Kalmiya, particularly friends of a more intimate persuasion. Her only hesitation has been in regards to Arthur's specific proclivities; she doesn't want to cause him the same kind of distress she did the first time she touched him unexpectedly.

But she likes physical affection. She likes to touch and be touched. And while she's found some resolution in her mirror's wake, in much the way a ravaged place falls quiet after a storm passes through, this endless night hasn't exactly brought her peace recently. So it's nice to have this, to offer Arthur some of the same comfort she finds in this closeness.

It's not home. But it feels a lot closer.

Her played-up indignity also feels familiar in a pleasant way; emphasizing her argument, she pokes her index finger into the shoulder her hand rests on.] I don't need them! I lived on the road for nearly three years carrying everything I owned! And I've got less now than I used to.

[She also never had shelves growing up, on account of lacking worldly possessions, but she's not going to bring that into her playful pouting.]

[ The two of them shift around, minute adjustments to find the most comfortable position for them both. After they settle, her arm comes to loop around his shoulders, both weighted and not. Her hand is warm where it loosely splays along his shoulder blade, the slow rise and fall of her chest the sweetest white noise he could ask for.

Despite his aversion to sudden touch—an instinctive flinch, borne from the military and living a paranoid life—he is, at his core, an incredibly tactile person. Habitually, he holds himself away from making contact with people, well aware of personal boundaries. Beyond that, he avoids touch unless absolutely necessary when running jobs, preferring to come across as nothing but aloof and professional.

Getting to indulge right now, after a horrendous few weeks, an equally horrible evening, and then the drain of experiencing that heart stopping nightmare—it floods him with a gratefulness it's nearly overwhelming. Kalmiya isn't worn, familiar embrace of his sister or Mal, but maybe this is the start. Maybe one day, she will be.

At her faux-annoyed prod, he shifts a bit, shoulders shaking in a quiet laugh. ]

Okay, okay. But, you have to admit they're useful. Besides, you gotta put roots down sometime, yeah?

[ Arthur tilts his chin, glancing up towards her. ] Impermanence can get tiring, after a while.

[The shake of his shoulders as he laughs brings a fresh mote of warmth to her chest. It's always good to hear him laugh—something she realized early into their acquaintance—but especially after everything tonight. The prodding hand settles, her fingers instead beginning to trace idle patterns along the back of Arthur's shoulder.

At the slight motion of his head, she peers down at him in turn, expression curious. A thoughtful hum fills the space after his observation as Kalmiya turns it all over in her head; in the process, her gaze wanders up to the ceiling, and her attention somewhere far beyond that. She had named herself for the tree that had been her only real sanctuary in childhood, but she can't imagine ever putting roots down in the same way. That tree has been there for centuries. And as a fey-touched aasimar, who knows how long she'll live—assuming she even makes it out of this hellhole? There's no place in her mind that could stand that test of time. Impermanence is the nature of the world. She likes when things change.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, her thoughts the distant sounds of life in a dark forest, she answers with a note of curiosity hanging onto her sentiment, as if she's never framed the thought in this context before.] I think my roots will be with people. Not a place.

[There isn't really a place that she belongs. But there are people she belongs with.]

[ Relaxing into her hold once more as she begins tracing her fingertips along his back, he watches as she turns the question around in her mind. There's a thoughtful hum, the reverberating in her chest and then onwards to his, before she looks to the ceiling, expression smoothing out in her contemplation. Having done the same thing on many nights of insomnia, he knows she's further afield than the plant-covered plaster above them.

Over the tether, he can feel the delve of thoughts like the muffled embrace of thick woods. In them is primarily a hush, punctuated by the drift of leaves, the scrape and sway of branches, the chirp of frogs and crickets both. ]

Of course, the people are important. [ They're why he endured fighting Los Angeles traffic or even the long drive out to the middle of Pennsylvania. ] You don't want a space to call your own?

[ While he's got plenty of things in his apartment back home, it's less about the stuff and more knowing there was a spot he could return to, time and again, without worrying over different etiquette or habits. Of course, he's also got plenty of photographs and memories on those walls and all over various surfaces. Like the stupid platypus carving Vivian got him that sits on his desk—she said it reminded her of him: sort of cute and normal, but actually a complete weirdo.

(In retaliation, he'd found a beanie-stuffed one with eyelashes and sent it to her, because they were twins, after all.) ]

[There's a clear split in her thought processes between the moment where she's thinking about Arthur's question and the moment where recollections of his own space float to the surface of his memories. It's a contemplative stroll down the path interrupted by tripping on an absolutely massive tree root which sends her ass over teakettle into a ditch of confusion and fascination.

What IS that thing? is the immediate impression, though outwardly it's accompanied only by a slight furrow of the brow. Rather than consider too deeply whether she wants to hold back some of the relevant information, she offers her answer breezily, like it's a distraction from the real issue.] I've never really had one, so it doesn't make much of a difference to me.

Hey— sorry, I don't mean to nose around, but— [She looks to him with intense focus, alight with eager curiosity.] What was that thing that came to mind? That little creature with the duck bill?

[Truly she has a hunger to learn.]

[ Her startled confusion is clear over the tether, though it runs alongside her processing the conversation about personal spaces. Separate thoughts and yet, rapid enough that switching from one to the other will require temporarily dropping a topic if needed.

Which apparently is the case, since the answer she gives—well, it's kind of sad, really. And it's something he tucks away to come back to later, because apparently his recollection of Vivian's gift is more important at the moment. Having anticipated the curiosity, he still can't help the raise of his brows, nor the bemusement that colors his voice. ]

The platypus? They're mammals mostly native to Australia. [ Not that she'll know where that is, but anyway: ] I take it they don't exist where you're from?

[ Score one for the mundane world having something more fantastical than a place that has fairies. ]

The platypus? [Her disbelieving delight is as clear in her voice as it is in the grin that's broken out over her face. A current of laughter underscores her exclamation.] What a cute name!

[He is absolutely correct that "Australia" doesn't ring any bells for her, but that doesn't seem to trouble her one bit as she barrels forward into this fun new discovery.] We have most of the animals I've seen here so far, so— they might? But if they do, I've certainly never seen one!

[Could she have been summoning Coconut as one of these delightful creatures?? So many missed opportunities!]

I suppose it is. [ He remarks, in a way that indicates he's never thought about the inherent cuteness of this animal's name. Because he hasn't. The delight in her laugh, though, is a bit infectious, making the corners of his mouth turn up. ]

They're not exactly all over, here, either. Maybe there's a whole colony of them on some remote island you haven't been to yet. [ After all, the only reason anyone outside of Australia knew what a platypus was in his world was thanks to modern communications. Well, settlement and science, too. But, a 10 year old in rural America wasn't likely to stumble on it in scientific papers or even in a textbook. Over the internet, though, that was more possible. ]

If you do find them, just be careful, they've got poison spurs on their feet.

They're venomous too?

[Her excitement only peaks higher, Arthur receiving a little squeeze of her arm as a consequence. There is now nothing except adoration for these weird little critters inside her heart.] Well, now I have to find them!

[Remote island. She's taking notes. They've eliminated the Reave, but there are plenty of other remote locations to explore, hopefully with fewer supernatural blizzards and shapeshifters running amok.

A pause, and then an idle musing:] I suppose I could conjure the form of one now, if Coconut wanted a new vessel... Maybe I could invent the platypus.

Yup, just on their back ... feet? Flippers? [ He actually has no earthly idea what they're counted as. It doesn't really seem to matter, since Kalmiya's excitement is palpable, especially as she gives him a brief squeeze with the arm that's looped over his shoulders. All he feels across the tether, too, is a radiant affection, centered around her thoughts of the little creatures. ]

Can you summon Coconut here? [ Is that even a thing? He'd thought with her being cut off from her powers, she wouldn't be able to. ] How often do familiars want for new vessels?

[ This magic stuff is still ... a lot. ]

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