[Hm. Touchy. (But not unlike a cat.) It's telling, not only with a bit more teasing information but also because he realizes Mogget is an expert is facades.
Actually, he loves this cat(?) very much. Of course he would.] A good place for a trap from the town. You really shouldn't be sleeping in them. [It's fine. He has his hand wrapped. This'll be fine.] They could release harmful pollen or toxins. As far as I know, Asphodelus isn't poisonous to cats, but you still shouldn't take any chances here.
[With the wrapped hand, he reaches out to grab the stem of one of the flowers and pluck it as carefully as possible, splitting the stem in half rather than yanking it all out of the ground. And...
...it's not fine.
Apparently, the flower doesn't exactly give a shit about skin contact. Picking it activates the rather vividly broadcasted memory. It's not as nice as it could have been. Typically, he's doing the dying. There's only one person who has truly died on him that could be considered a friend: his father.
The scene sucks them in like a vortex, and then throws them both out through his eyes. It's a funeral, but not a big one surprisingly. The acrid smell of land jutting from the edge of a bustling city, the manicured grass beneath his feet--familiar. The few faces--familiar. A hole with a casket, a butler, and a gravestone. There's not any crying, but there's also not a dry eye between the lot of them.
In thick, formal letters, the engravement says: BRUCE WAYNE
Without warning, the memory kicks them out as roughly as it pulled them in. Damian's sprawled back on the ground, hand flowerless, eyes wide. He gasps once, short, but as if he's been holding his breath beneath water for years.]
no subject
Actually, he loves this cat(?) very much. Of course he would.] A good place for a trap from the town. You really shouldn't be sleeping in them. [It's fine. He has his hand wrapped. This'll be fine.] They could release harmful pollen or toxins. As far as I know, Asphodelus isn't poisonous to cats, but you still shouldn't take any chances here.
[With the wrapped hand, he reaches out to grab the stem of one of the flowers and pluck it as carefully as possible, splitting the stem in half rather than yanking it all out of the ground. And...
...it's not fine.
Apparently, the flower doesn't exactly give a shit about skin contact. Picking it activates the rather vividly broadcasted memory. It's not as nice as it could have been. Typically, he's doing the dying. There's only one person who has truly died on him that could be considered a friend: his father.
The scene sucks them in like a vortex, and then throws them both out through his eyes. It's a funeral, but not a big one surprisingly. The acrid smell of land jutting from the edge of a bustling city, the manicured grass beneath his feet--familiar. The few faces--familiar. A hole with a casket, a butler, and a gravestone. There's not any crying, but there's also not a dry eye between the lot of them.
In thick, formal letters, the engravement says: BRUCE WAYNE
Without warning, the memory kicks them out as roughly as it pulled them in. Damian's sprawled back on the ground, hand flowerless, eyes wide. He gasps once, short, but as if he's been holding his breath beneath water for years.]
NO!