MINGLE - Post-Op(era) Recovery

[pumpkinhollow]

On this night we drink to the death of Sorrow.

After the Fall of Efrain With the Prince of Sorrow's Song dead and gone, the opera dissipates, spitting its victims out on the summit of Crane's Ridge where the Dance of Celestine was held some months before. It's getting late, and there is no one yet in town to run the train. Some will brave the trip home simply for the sake of collapsing into their own beds and achieving some sense of normalcy. Others will do so with the hope of returning with help. But many others will simply say "fuck it" and camp out on the mountain, still fitted with extra firewood from the festival and the means to build temporary structures in nearby storage sheds. The journey down will be safer in the morning, and there's solidarity to be had in a cool spring night spent under the stars.

Oh, look, there's even some non-perishable food and wine from the Dance. Combined with what can be hunted or foraged, as well as snacks and drinks stolen from the concession stand, there's plenty to go around. This might even be a little bit fun! Anyone up for another game of Never Have I Ever? Maybe a little Truth or Dare? Or perhaps you just want to chat and unwind with your friends. Whatever the case may be, have fun. This is your time. After darkness, there is a dawn. At the death of Sorrow, there is joy.

Comments

[liesdontfindyou]

She looks over, brow furrowed just enough to be surprise.

"Oh." Like she's only just realised this fact to be true, or even considered it an option. "So there are. Uh— sure."

Getting up proves to be a small ordeal, with all the material. She almost trips herself by stepping on part of the skirt more than once before she manages it, huffing frustratedly each time.

[not_the_last]

"Here --" She offers an arm for support, slightly bemused by how much difficulty the skirts are giving CT. It takes her a moment to remember that some people almost never wear anything with quite that much skirt.

(What she's wearing is entirely too similar to something she might wear every day; a touch lighter and floatier, with more and thinner layers of underskirt, is the main difference. Just enough to make it a costume and not her own clothes.)

[liesdontfindyou]

"Thanks—"

It's a little embarrassing, really, but she's never worn a dress like this in her life and she's so very exhausted. With the arm, she makes it up and thumps down into the seat with a heavy breath.

"I feel like I've been awake for a week," she mumbles, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

[not_the_last]

Cassandra pulls up a chair beside CT's, and sits down -- a little less like collapsing, but still more heavily than usual, and with a great deal of relief.

"I think the longest I've ever been awake at once was two and a half days," she says, tipping her head back to rest against the chair's back, "and I can't remember if that felt like this."

[liesdontfindyou]

"My actual record is just under a week," she sighs, dropping her hands again. "The real deal was definitely worse, but this... isn't much better."

Different, maybe, but not much better. The emotional exhaustion reminds her too keenly of the worst days.

"It's not even really the..." she gestures loosely, lacking words. The length of time they were awake, being puppeted through plays. The effort, exertion, whatever. "It's— I don't know. I don't like being watched."

Not like that, anyway.

[not_the_last]

Cassandra's shoulders twitch, as though in a poorly suppressed shudder. "I don't care for it myself. Especially not as an entertainment."

[liesdontfindyou]

"Some entertainment," CT grumbles. God, it feels childish to grumble and groan about something they all went through, something that she damn well understands the logic of—demonic logic, demonic entertainment, demonic everything. "I guess they didn't skimp on the production value, at least."

...sigh. She hates this bitter feeling.

[not_the_last]

Her mouth twists. "I suppose."

A long beat.

"I'll understand if you don't want to discuss it," she starts, and pauses to see if CT confirms that no, she doesn't.

[liesdontfindyou]

"Well. I doubt any of us really want to discuss it," CT says, rubbing her temple. "But I also think that it's worse to just sit and wonder what people made of... everything."

One of many kinds of unknowns she hates.

[not_the_last]

"Oh," Cassandra sighs, without quite meaning to, "you may have something there. All right ... shall we trade questions? Until one of us gets tired of either asking or answering?"

[liesdontfindyou]

"Works for me," she agrees, dropping her hand again and sitting a little more upright. Annoyed, suddenly, that this damn costume didn't come with a bracelet to occupy her hands. "You first, if you like."

[not_the_last]

She nods. Considers, for a moment.

"The other figure in your dance ... was that the same person as the one in your dream?"

[liesdontfindyou]

"No," CT breathes. "In the dream, it was a man codenamed Florida. In the dance, it was... he was supposed to be an ally of mine. Everyone called him Needles. Fitting enough for how much of a prick he turned out to be."

She'll let that sit a second whilst she chooses her own question.

[not_the_last]

"Ah." She takes that ... soberly, is maybe the best word for it. The answer raises more questions, of course, but then it could hardly do otherwise.

(It does also give one clear answer. Two enemies, then.)

"Your turn, I believe."