Heathin Cassie Emerson

English language decallibrator and creatively-minded Stoic

0 · 194 views · located in Central Arteghia

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Sovenric


Physical Description

Heathin is a slightly emasculated female, who is 21 years of age. She has an inner critic that attacks her own thoughts and beliefs regularly. Ocasionally self-destructive. Heathin is very absentminded, usually escaping to more interesting places she's been using her imagination.
She has hair that is comparable to a cadmium red pencil; it is relatively short and congruent with her shoulders; allready Heathin posesses a few white hairs. Heathin's eyes are a greeny brown and relatively neutral in tone; they are not very far apart nor close together: they are located next to the middle section of the nose. They're rounder and more piercing than usual eyes: they usually appear very ratty because of their position and height, but nontherless a rather large portion of the eye is showing. Heathin's eyelashes are relatively short and have not been modified. She does not use glasses. Her eyebrows are very apparent and black; in the middle of her face: there is a wash of hair: not large enough to be considered a monobrow. Her face is relatively oval or heart shaped: her hair covers her forehead down to her eyebrows. Heathin has slightly pale red lips most of the time. The skin on Heathin's lips has split in many places giving them an abrasive texture. Heathin's lower lip is, by default, above her upper lip. There is little wrong with Heathin's teeth other than they're ever-so-slightly yellowed; all teeth are dult and the only teeth that have been removed thus far are the wisdom teeth and 1 i incisor on the upper left. Heathin's nose is narrow, small and bulbous at the end. Cheeks on Heathin's face are usually slightly red on account of a skin condition that increases blood flow to the cheeks. Heathin has very very pale skin - it is almost fully white. Heathin has a normal-sized neck for godsakes. It is hard to see Heathin's collar bone. Shoulders are relatively broad and curve downwards fast. On her arms Heathin has very little muscle mass. Hands are soft, dainty and small; there is slightly more blood flow to the hands. Heathin does not have a very broad chest and her breasts are not very far into development, but there is evidence of a protusion from her chest through her clothing if she's wearing a no more than two layers; emtheydon'tmoveindependentlyatall. Her stomach is flat and thin; however; when digesting food it swells up slightly to accustom the food. Her hips are particularly curvaceous and estrogen-rich and feminine. Her legs stand quite far apart allowing her a slight thigh gap. Heathin's thighs curve inwards and are narrowed. You could notice Heathin's kneecaps through clothing. Her legs are clean-shaven. Her lower legs are even thinner and less muscular than her thighs; by a small ammount. Heathin's feet are size 4 and fit into size 4 shoes accordingly.


The posture of Heathin is usually quite simple. Heathin had the tendency to crane her neck or lean forward unhealthily while sitting down. Once sitting down: Heathin usually removes the use of her hands if she's allowed to by putting them under her legs. Heathin prefers to sit legs out straight rather than cross-legged. Heathin usually places her legs very close together. When standing up and walking: Heathin prefers long strides, and does not like to move her arms; keeping them by her side or in her pockets. In Heathin there's a tendency for her to rub her left hand on the top of her thigh or undo and redo a shirt button in order to keep alert. If Heathin is feeling nervous: she brings her hands together: holding each other so that they meet at her chest.

Heathin likes to spend alot of their time alone doing indicidual activites that they find fun; if they get tired she's are not afraid to move to a less demanding task or to stop. Heathin's current friends are few; but the connections she has made are technically very close; and is very open to their feelings. Befriending Heathin is arduous, but Heathin turns out to be very good at helping the issues on her friends' minds; especially depression. When a friendship is created with Heathin: it has a longevity and Heathin is very therapeutic and giving towards close friends. Enemies of Heathin stem from Heathin's often selfish stoical nature; Heathin is weak and easy to overpower and thus Heathin fears her enemies greatly.

She lives life on an Epicurean logic of escape; ocasionally she's tried to add socialism to her lifestyle: however she found that intensely stressful. Her moral rules are blatant and normal: "don't cause unnecessary pain to innocent human beings", "there should be an equal and opposite consequence for your action", "killing and stealing are both wrong'. However; two beliefs held by her are unique: "Acting like an idiot is the fairest way to act: pushing your problems to one side and cultivating an i difference to people's intelligence, politics, abf leadership goals is the best way to live" and "Delaying gratification for your actions is the only way to be a true moral hero". An ambition of Heathin is to nurture the thought that death is just a line between relevance and irrelevance.

Posessed by Heathin is a high-pitched soprano voice, with a faded enthusiasm and a tedency to not pronounce certain sounds such as "th" in "something: it still has a problem with pitch-changing as it goes high to low rather spontaneously. Heathin has a problem muttering to themselves; but otherwise is extremely quiet. Heathin will usually speak when spoken to; but sometimes, if the person's voice is too understated; will not be able to listen. Heathin's lexicon is pretty good with some complex, poetic, romantic words added in: but Heathin generally finds it hard to maintain a conversation with someone. Heathin will almost always start a conversation with an enthusiastic "Name! How are you?" Or "How do you do?" Or "Fine thank you; how is it your way?". Heathin doesn't usually speak her mind out loud: but there are traces of an inner critic in her mumbling. When Heathin mumbles, it is almost always a comment on herself or a conversation with herself. Yay! Heathin, if in a conversation with someone who isn't a mutual friend or family member; will rarely vary the tone of her voice, and usually sounds shaky, bubbly and hoarse.

Alot of noise is made by Heathin when even the simplest implication of potential danger is brought upon them, especially during night hours. Heathin posesses a fear of falling, immortality, uncertainty and losing their mind.

Heathin does not know how to handle cinesthetic fights at all; but has a fair ammount of knowledge on how to use modern-day distance weapons such as guns. Heathin is very good at hiding and escaping from dangerous places. If Heathin senses danger: her first thought is to erase it with maximum success rate. If this fails: Heathin's second thought is to run away. If Heathin can't run away for whatever reason: it triggers her indifference to death and pain as well as deep-buried Nihilism; and will likely mutter reassuring thoughts about death to herself.

So begins...

Heathin Cassie Emerson's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Heathin Cassie Emerson

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Walls were having an interesting marking session; Heathin's activities yesterday had led her to think about the weird markings on the timber. Benign, silly, and superstitious things that she didn't believe but made her happy as they engaged her with something completely subjective to think about.

She thought while looking at the eyes on the severed lumber, that it actually showed the eye attached to a face. Like the kind you find in clouds sometimes; but in two dimensions and more brown, and that the art style gave all of the created faces dark and very ovular eyes with the pupil substituting for the iris and the white, and that all of the faces seen this way had choppy outlines which often made them look like they were cave paintings. This thought had become glued in her head during and after going to sleep on that overcast eve. These thoughts continued into tomorrow like a cable which would connect the two days together; but were quickly set aside in the morning. This did not necessarily mean she would have forgotten about them.

A settlement in Central Arteghia was made entirely of oak wood, mahogany, brass, mortar, nails, copper wires, plastic moderator, electricity, Yttrium, slate, small amounts of various other materials and paint. This was Heathin's house. You could notice it from the surrounding area, except there wasn't much of a neighborhood where she lived. This was because it had a unique color that was brought out in white light, which was commonly in great abundance due to the generally clear weather: dark red. Paint used in the design of the house was not purely aesthetic as it also hoped to protect the house from several types of rot.

The house had two floors and five rooms, which joined to each other simultaneously with no corridors: one washroom, a kitchen, a living room, one bedroom and a porch. The porch faced the east almost exactly; however, it was a tiny bit further south than it was dead-on West. It had three walls on the outside: two of them connected the porch structure to the living room's outer walls respectively and they were at either side. These two walls measured roughly two meters across and three meters upwards; the planks that made up the wall were also two meters across, however they measured twenty two centimeters upwards with no spacing; which allowed for vertically twelve planks to be plated. From the end of each one, invariably, the the further end that faced the third wall on the outside of the porch were two nails. Some five centimeters inwards and with a four centimeter gap between each one and aligned piously to the center, even if there was a slight human mistake that caused a centimeter of difference: connected to a beam within the corner of the porch room that was a solid ovular oak log with all bark burnished from off it; this counted for both sides. There were no notable marks on these boards on the outside per say. Texture on the boards, regardless of the paint that was draped on them, still appeared rather stubbly; and it was as if a bit of thin tinder could chip off any second. Building these planks was some roughly-cut oak wood.

The texture on the first plank from the bottom of the left was the most brisk and stubbly, the third plank from the bottom of the right was the second most abrasive from that; but it was all a rather linear process, and none of this was linked directly to the effect of greenery on the state of the wood: it just seemed to be manufactured in a carefree manner which made the end product stipple arduously with some sharp edges. To the top plank of the right side, about seventeen centimeters from the dead left: hung a solitary lichen. There was no other plant matter to speak of on these two walls. The second plank on the right had a slight jolt a few thirty centimeters in; where it went for a trip upwards but the frame of the house in between the whitewashed mortar that made in the inner bit of the porch and the outside ensured that the tiny little space this jaunt in the wood was exposing would not let much of the heat out.

The third outer wall encompassed the door to the porch: the first and smallest room in the house. The door was of pure mahogany to make it lighter than the frame it was placed in. It appeared raised 2 or so centimeters raised from off the ground with a very novel lining at the bottom to raise it. Three hinges settled the door on its right hand side; one ten centimeters from the bottom, one ten centimeters from the top, and one appeared directly in the middle of the one hundred and sixty centimeter high and ninety centimeter wide door. Design of the door allowed for one square, flat, thin wooden base which on the outer side and inner side was decorated with three vertical bevels supported by a horizontal bevel at the top and bottom; which continued like this to the end of the board and had a nail placed in every simultaneous corner. The panel between the center and right-hand bevels was slightly dented about seven centimeters from the top; causing the wooden flesh at that particular point to have a depression and look slightly brighter than the rest. linear markings of black were intricately placed by the millions in between the overall neutral color of the gash that resembled the tree's age; with only about seven rings going through it as it was in close proximity to an eye.

There were a few similar markings that were randomly dispersed on the mahogany door. It was not painted such as the rest of the exterior of the porch; but rather varnished. In the current conditions it would shine white, as mahogany was a bright wood to begin with. It possessed a brass handle with a Celtic pattern rimming the farthest point, and it followed a regular polygon design with nine sides. Below this was a postbox with another bit of brass: a brass hinge that could have been pulled up and down to post small a four documents through; yet they may have to be folded. The two walls next to this one merely constituted for the gap between the northern and southern walls with a small half a meter stretch on the left side and a quarter on the right. Lichen permeated these planks a lot more obviously on the area surrounding the 6th one on the right plank, there was excessive lichen growth to the right-hand side that emerged as a zigzag pattern; with fewer and fewer lichen as it went to the right as if it was coming recessive and poised. The nutrients of the lichen samples closer to the right seemed to have the idea to grow outwards rather than across, which made them technically bigger than the lichen that grew across but also less of a nuisance to take the lichen off the door. Opening this door would always cause it to open outwards and not inwards; but was not a fire door. It had a lock mechanism with a specific key; its shape shall not be divulged for the purpose of remaining incognito on the subject. This key can be turned to the left to unlock the door or to the right to lock it; and expunge of the house's miserable little secrets; it was a miserable existence to be home bound in a place such as this; and watch the confines and walls of the house decay slowly each day; Heathin felt lucky that this was not her reality.

Comparably to the rest of the house; the porch wasn't very large; bearing very little headroom, not that this seemed to matter, as it was designed exclusively for Heathin's height and she had not many visitors at all. Larger creatures would have a problem being comfortable in this minuscule room.

Within the interior of this room slumped a carpet centrally-placed at foot level. It was a thick and fibrous carpet with a novelty Aztec design of the monkey god of dance, looped. It bore green to show the monkey's skin, purple to outline him, and a zigzag pattern that embraced the outer part of the carpet. It went in this order with no exceptions throughout the whole outer rim, the part before there was a break for a slim purple border to be added: Green, purple, brown, brown. It looped like this until the end of one of the vertices and had no apparent relationship with the next side. Vibrant colors had faded slightly due to monotonous exposure to shoes being dragged across it. It was a rectangular, flexible and small carpet with a lot of air and far-apart knitting work.

Next to these to the left, a few fifteen centimetres to the left, was an area were Heathin's shoes were draped. A pair of plain brown walking shoes with maroon laces and a rolled-up plastic part at the top to simplify the shoelace-tying activity, flat plastic studs beneath the sole of the design and with a gap were the back of the foot would be, and the name of a company called "Retina" impressed onto the shoe in a font that looked similar to Calibri and Century Gothic mixed together, however seemed to not have a name as it was designed by the company as part of their visual language. Seven holes in total, was how many loops were allowed to be threaded. On the front of the shoe: there was an ovular section that was a shade darker in brown. The material was knit together very finely, and the ovular section had a slightly softer texture, as if touching felt. The middle of the shoes was creased from excessive use and folded at these points when the shoe was squashed; but it was sturdy and didn't squash easily. You could tell of the creases as there were dimples that were brought out akin to the ones within an t-shirt that wasn't ironed. Both quarters were brought out slightly in both of the pair and had the same unique fuzzy felt feel; but the color was instead maroon for this section. There was no intricate pattern, just flat colors that the felt adjusted for an effect slightly like marble. These shoes were farthest to the right on the wooden stall. On this bench sat also some plain brown trainers, with also some maroon laces and very similarly furnished as the walking boots; even to the point that they bore the same brand name. But they followed the traditions of trainers, that they were for mobility. Shoes on this side of the shoe rack expressed this by having very thin quarters that didn't puff out such as the walking-boots did in order to decrease surface area; and to create a tipped point that would break through the air resistance and maximize mobility which was a normal thing this company included in their trainers. These were all positioned on a handmade wooden stall with an organic-looking base, which sat evenly onto the floor that was composed of five evenly-sized planks of oak wood that in-turn was supported by several beams underneath it; the surface disallowed the rack, that was holding the shoes, to rock from side-to-side the way the shoes were pointing, of the way the two planks of wood that raised the rack were aligned but not necessarily pointing.

This was a caliginous room; there were not many light sources to this room at all. But it could be brightened up once there was a candle in there which was often Heathin's resolve. Considering how detached it was from the rest of the house; it also shared the least heat and was the coldest. In the worst of times: temperatures dropped lower than five degrees Celsius and the average temperature for the room was thirteen degrees Celsius. Not enough to cause an irregular biting pain, but enough to disturb the sufferer and make the sufferer lose focus of the task in hand and become impulsive or disheartened.

Walls were of solid mortar. Tiny bits of stone exterted in tiny, stewy yellow and brown seawashed pebbles. These pebbles potruded from the base design at about the same angle that they were pressed into the mprtar but dudn't have any rings around them that stooped into the walls. It was a narrow and complacent vortex of pebbles and stone. More stones settled at the top than the bottom. It posesssed a smooth, filmy surface at the first layer of texture. Often the wall would allow for a tint to red or white when more sand or more clay had been dispersed to that part of the mixture.
Temperatures were yet to affect the state of the stone, lucid wall that was colored grey, amidst a pile of rubbled pebbles. If you placed your hand on it; the wall would only make your hand feel as if it was on an abrasive surface due to the composition of pebbles that was overbearing on the whole piece. The wall from very close up looked as if it was composed of tiny bits of salt and pepper; this was only to add up to a grueling grey the further you took away and your eyes blurred the titanium white and pitch blackness. Around the mortar wall that was otherwise entirely granular. It was fine and its structure so complex that you needed a powertool to cut into this set stone. Few natural problems posessed these walls; not even the usual culprit: dry rot, could bind itself to this wall. The wall enshrouding the door had a lever arch; modified to the size that it would cut out a hole big enough to support the door. This wall saw a slight wavy line going up the wall, modifying the feel of its surface what's asumed to be four times; in four equally broad waves and with a dip in the middle of each one.

Overhead; on the outside, the house was lined with sharp and jeering slate that rab across in a normal bricklayer's pattern; allowing for rows of eight and seven slates to repeat continuously. Slates stood impressively sterile and the cold wind usually made them a prime subject to be glazed with snow; today was no different and a fuzzy layer was wrapped around this obstacle; which meant that at the sides there was a buildup of meltable cotton looking ice; and thag the rest of the tile was lightly salted with this kind of ice; so that in the white light it would illuminate in an arc alot more bright in tone than it actually stood at; if you invidualted it on a cloudy day you would see its true color of a bluey-black, like the color was plagiarised from a leather purse. The composition allowed it to connect with the two walls thar were either side to the door near to the very end; moving across at what seemed to be a twelve degeee angle before reaching the bedroom's Eastern facing wall with ease and structural prowess. A thin layer of mortar bound each tile to the wooden support frame placed underneath; which was in turn supported by two singular beams that ran straight across the top of the interior of the porch and were embedded within the chemical stone.

The next room over was separated by a door which had three vertical bevels that meant the rightmost side of the bevel that was furthest to the right met the top of a vertical bevel that was placed at the bottom and the bottom of a vertical bevel that was placed at the top; with very little upsets in the straight nature of the planks. In addition to the board: the cool was easily deflected by this aesthetic; and the warmth kept in with the aid of loft insulation. It was not raised or sunk and such a door would always open both ways; like a pendulum would, and at a similar speed, but with the chain solid and facing horizontally. Not to mention: it had three hinges which had positions that were almost had a synergy with the ones on the front door. There was no doorknob or postbox on the door; you just pressed onto it from either side and the hinges would gladly let it sway in either direction.

Opposite this doorway on the inner side was a living room. It was approximately nine meters wide, four meters high and fifteen metres long. An entrance to the porch started some five centimetres left to the center of the eastern-facing wall and was surrounded by a wooden 'L' shape arch that encompassed it with a typical celtic knot grafted upon the wooden surface; rounded and not extremely detailed. This room had an open plan and no more than 4 walls.
A large window was allocated in the space between the porch and the exposed right hand side of the Eastern-facing wall of the living room. It was double-glazed and it would take a brick in order to crack it. And of course, due to this: at every corner there was a small generic fitting of a metal plate with several punctures in order to give the glass a greater purchase. Lifted from this piece was a small plastic black stub; before emerging into a flat and unmodfied mahogany frame that was neatly sanded and not rough and raw like the stuff that built the house's structure itself. Around this rectangular window there was an ovular arch; which meant that this wood and mortar would consititute for the space inbetween. It was because of this window that there was a high light-level in the room during the equinox. There were few other windows to speak of that were worth the time of discussing.

This was it. Heathin's rest came from the couch opposite the window. She slept under a marroon blanket with no pattern or other colours. Puffy and impressionable; very thick and heavily comfortable and cosy that draped over her like a cotton and silken robe. Heathin was slerping messily at an angle so that her left foot was no longer on the couch had fallen down; and the bed had many folds, especially around Heathin's waist. This blanket was supported by a couch that was tar coloured; and fitted with three seperate round cushions and two arms; one of which Heathin had layed her head on longitudally; curving slightly around the ovular arm at any joints she had. The blanket was best brought out in white light much like the red paint on the outside planks that built the house. This kind of light would be the one that obscured Heathin s slumber back in to reality; as was happening at that point in time.

Other paraphernalia was situed in this room. The floor was a piece of paraphernalia for example: a sleek, by-the-by, cadmium red, woollen, rolled-out carpet that covered the whole room up to a eleven centimetre long section that was next to the entrance and exit and allowed for opening and closing of both doors with relative ease; as opposed to the sluggish result of placing them on carpets; which would halt them amidst the intimate bristles that made up this maroon carpet. It gave a pleasant sensation of fluffiness to the touch. Had the floor not have been made beneath with wooden planks, but rather foam: it may be possible to be compelled to sleep on it. It served as a sturdy surface for all over paraphernalia to be balanced or even imbalanced on top of.

A hole in the wall gave way to a chimney. Below this chimney that extended into the bedroon and out through a vent on the roof was a fireplace, completely metallic and grey with a novel image of a flower on the base between the lower vent and the window to see the fire. The window to see the fire was in the shape of a latch; and there was a latch to open and seal the closed fireplace. This heated up when logs were burning an in this instance required an ocen mit. Luckily, on the slate surface next to the fireplace was a crimson oven mitten, a box of chef's matches with an illustration of matches on the top, and a weaved basket full of kinderling, petrochemical firelighters and larger oak wood and mahogany logs for fuelling the fire.
At the current time the fire remained unlit. No new heat was being spread.
And so, behind the couch there was a large varnsihed and refined oak table with curved rims . The legs of the table were at each vertice; starting invariably five centinetres to five point one centimetres from the edge. These legs were even and all were in the shape of an hourglass as they went down. Etchings on the table? Those were in great supply. With a fountain pen; Heathin had permanently perscribed onto the surface eyes around the eyes of the wood that permeated the table. The base was built up of seperate plank of wood that were glued tightly together with a strong adhesive; to the point that you couldn't feel a gap between it. Five eyes was the common number of eyes on each piece, heavily inplying they'd used heartwood in order to build it.

One chair faced the table from the South and was pushed in at the current time; so that the niddle of the back of the chair met with the edge of the base of the table like they were both conforming to each other. The chair was sturdy and could support the weight of an average adult human being without much exertion.

On the table sat much of Heathin's day-to-day junk. Mainly papers thar were scribed with illustrious descriptive writings that quickly turned boring, and small pictures of silly little stick men going on nonsensical adventures. Also there lay on the table, at an untidy wonky angle: a single fountain pen and a closed vial with a rubber bung and a spout containing half a litre of good quality indian ink.

A potted flowering cacti was also close to one of the edges; sitting in rich soil in a fired clay pot that was ovular. It was quickly flourishing at this point, nourished by the minerals and the sunlight and often temperate environment: it was possible to see the sap seeping slightly through the stomata. It remained a healthy and velvety green.

Heathin's vision was blank. With nothing in it. She lay horizontally on the couch, just sitting there, waiting to forego the next day. Fastenned shut like a trove of memories were Heathin's eyes, she could only sense what had happened to her. Momentarily, her lips pursed as they'd done all night; none of the lip could be seen as it had all been sucked in. At her left cheek; she met with her left hand, that was sandwiched between the cheek and her right hand making it go a bit limp and spent.

Her right hand connected to the sofa, moving it around on the surface. Her front faced the sofa and her back was just beneath the blanket. Her left leg was taken out of the bed by matter of coincidence of shifting about during the night; she sensed that it was not connected to a solid surface by the demand of gravity. Skin on the stomch wax pressed against the middle cushion on the couch, as Heathin could sense that their t-shirt was lifted slightly; she could feel her skin sting as it rubbed against this depowering surface. How her lower right leg was brought up by something made her think, but soon she resolved that it was because of the arm. Her left leg was exposed and cold and her right leg was insulated and warm; the rest of her body was in a temperate dissonance.

Sleeping like this meant that Heathin's back curved forward. It made it feel sore at the center; a sinilar perscription of pain perpertrating her polygonal posture puncturing it could be a bruise on the bone. For this Heathin had a brief thought that she needed to see a chiropractor.

In the stomach; a gurgling noise vibrated vindictively, causing Heathin further discomfort as more of her skin met with the surface. It was calling out for food. Since Heathin wasn't facing the light; it was her stomach calling for food that made her want to get up. This feeling of discontentment and the sickly bubbling of excess acid shot through Heathin's nervous system; an easy thing to translate to the other nerves. She felt it in her mouth the most. It caused her mouth to act, as when it got to the mouth it forced her to taste a neutral, boring and arduous taste of saliva and plaque.

"I'll get up now; you; you; you can count on that. Yes" Heathin murmured in passing idly.

At this point, she valiantly and defiantly of the urge to continue laying in bed: removed her left hand from the hand sandwich and picked at the cover. Begginong the translation of Heathin's posture from horizontal to vertical, and in an instant the horizontal was dismissed and Heathin's feet both touched the carpet; causing her hips to feel twisted. She arduously pulled up her torso, relieving this stress. This forced the head to follow. She has now traded horizontal for vertical; causing a slight ache to emerge in the neo cortex of Heathin's head.

At this point: the stinging from her stomach moving against the abrasive cushion was expunged. And her t-shirt automatically drooped past her stomach thanks to gravity.

She was ready to go through this day and into the next if her mind so choosed.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Heathin Cassie Emerson

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Waiting. Waiting slowly for the flow of blood to her hands to become reasonable. They lay at waist-height, the palm of the hand rubbing the bed in therapeutic circles. Turning the tone dark, and once again bright; as the bristles ceeled over from one side to another on the couch's fabric.

Slowly, blood micturnated from Heathin's arms all the way down to her hands. Once there was more blood, her wrist jolted in response to the excess blood; choking on the large ammount that was going through. The electrostatic feeling of pins and needles slowly and hesistantly faded. With her new-found strength: she brought her hands up from off the seat; aligning them at the collar bone, and then she kneaded her hands. Pulling on her fingers with a closed fist on her right hand; pulling her fingers with a closed fist on her right. Novel hand excercises to adapt them to the day like she would for her whole body if she were to take a shower; though not intending to do so.

You could tell, her first target for her eyes was the window: the outside of the window. She squinted at the three douglas firs the other side of the glade-lake; casting enormous shadows. It was like they had something to symbolise and say. She gave an uncontrollable attention to the tiny, tubelike leaves and how they related to the cilia. Thinking of these, almost like thousand-fingered hands.

Bringing her head to rest upon her left shoulder. Roasting her brain for some specific solution to her dissatisfaction. Then, she brought her left hand to her stomach.

She reeled the hand back an inch; and then launched it forward onto her stomach.

Slickly the sole slapped swiftly the stiff stomach. Reverberations gave away that it was empty.

Something to do with how fast she patted herself; she was sure she remembered this a while ago. Maybe if she was hitting something fragile with this action, something would break.

A thought came upon her: breakfast. That was her want and what was dissatisfying her.

"Wait ; how did I forget something that simple? I'm, not an egghead, but I should know when I want food. Hm; must remember not to eat too much. I need to just have some toast or something. Really? That's pretty much all I have." She murmured these droning, repetitive thoughts; all introverted.

Pressure on her feet arose. The back of both of her feet finally met the ground. An obsolete sitting postion.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Heathin Cassie Emerson Character Portrait: Dacarn Veldrin

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"Eugh, this is a horrible part of Terra, why did Hagan have to send me here.." Callandra muttered to herself as she made her way through what appeared to be some kind of backwater road leading to nowhere. Contrary to Dacarn's jeep that had seen much better days. Callandra was driving a white pickup, resembling a newer Toyota Hilux. The white finish of the truck bore the silver ribbon like logo of one of the Galaxy's largest technology conglomerates, Tech Con Group which was based out of the United Aschen Empire. Tech Con had a long history of resource exploitation here on Terra, and Arteghia; with it's war torn lawlessness seemed to be ripe for exploitation by Tech Con's savvy yet greedy owner and CEO, Miles Hagan.

With each bump, each rock that the white dirtied pickup had to traverse, the young woman was jostled around inside the leather trim cab. Next to Callandra, mounted securely upon a weapon rack, was a disruptor rifle. The Type 53 Disruptor rifle, with it's sleek ergonomic lines, white and black finish, integrated holographic scope, and enough firepower to put a bolt of superheated plasma and charged particles through six inches of concrete was a staple weapon that symbolized Aschen oppression across this part of the Galaxy. That, along with a Type 23 Disruptor pistol, another sleek ergonomic weapon that was securely holstered within a black kydex holster equipped with triple retention to securely fasten Callandra's sidearm, yet afford a quick draw if she was in a situation where she was required to defend herself.

Bored blue orbs drifted across the road as she surveyed the road ahead. After a moment, she spotted what appeared to be a broken down jeep parked besides a strange looking settlement. The woman made a face for a moment as she slowed down, and eased off the throttle to get a better look.

What she spotted didn't seem too out of the ordinary for this part of the world. A man that appeared to be human, dressed in military gear knocking on someone's house. This man, Callandra surmised was likely the owner of the jeep that was parked on the side of the road.

With a snap decision, Callandra brought the dirty white 4x4 extended cab pickup to a stop, it's brakes squealing from the dirt and mud that had caked itself upon the truck's rotors.

Having come to a complete stop behind the jeep, Callandra placed the truck in park, and gently swept a lock of hair away from her face as she pushed the driver door open. In that motion, she grasped a grey military style hat with the Tech Con logo embroidered across the front.

Securing the hat to her head, and adjusting her grey BDU Style shirt and smoothing the creases on her BDU Style pants, which hugged her feminine form but also provided ease of movement. She stepped out from the pickup truck, and let the door slam with an audible thunk, as the muddy Arteghian soil began to cake on carefully polished black tactical footwear.

Her eyes were on Dacarn Veldrin, while her right hand rested carefully on the stock of her holstered disruptor pistol. She was an image of Military Formality, representing the Tech Con Private Military Agency through and through, even as she parted her lips to speak, a soft feminine voice carrying across the air towards the man at the door of the strange house.

"Is that your jeep?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Heathin Cassie Emerson Character Portrait: Dacarn Veldrin

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With the intent to get up; she plucked the courage to set aside her longing for sleep in order to have a more clear ambition to get up, first. Even this wasn't easy, as there was a thought in her head in the figure of a monster to her: that would always criticise every single awkward thing she did. It was an organic wall; the monster would only part and give way to thoughts if they weren't nonsensical. This wall, she'd no clue why she put it into metaphysical being. It was very disheartening. However: something simple and no-nonsense like getting up and having breakfast obviously got a pass. Her organic wall let the notion to get up and eat breakfast to go through, giving a little handy advice tip as it slipped through the cavity:
"Use proper English."
Heathin, for a second, felt like nodding. However: the point was to get up. At the current time she could feel a burning sensation on both lower legs; lingerling lifelessly like lucid lanterns. On the lower half of her lower legs this was most apparent. Forcing her whole weight onto her legs after they'd been whimsically spinning around for so long didn't make them temperate: it was boiling her blood. She could feel her blood tense up and gash out of her arms and stomach; reelng towards her legs like a clingy bunch of particles. It made her arms feel less full of life: she felt how they'd been purified and blood just ran through them at a normal rate again. But she could feel her blood congeal and suck: consumed by the legs. As they filled up she felt her legs rush with hotness and warm blood; scalding her almost. Like a warm quantity of firepower; like drinking a fine ale or some caffiene, extra blood invigorated her in the same way. Motivating her to get up. With this concentration? Days and days went by where this made it easier for her to get up from the couch. Just half a second ago, she could feel her legs refrigerated by cool and fresh blankets. Now she felt so much different; but the sense of the refrigerated blankets still lingered on the ankle to the kneecap area. Heathin thought of the bed; even now that she'd woken up and was facing away from it.

Within the moment: she stressed her calf muscles. Heathin could feel them hiss and writhe; products of getting out the wrong side of her bed. Through the air she began to lean them forward. They were quivering with want to sleep as they did so. A moment passed, and the end of her trail still hadn't been met. So slow. Legs so heavy. She thought of getting back into bed and slacking off. So tired, so compelled to yawn out and to assimilate copious ammounts of oxygen into her heaving aching lungs, so delectable is sleep, dreams; she thought about her dreams. She tried to shrug off the thought on dreams and quickly omit her legs, her right more so than her left as she felt more hefty with that one, definitely her stronger leg: she wanted to place the two out in front of her but the right one to take the lead and to simplify getting up. She couldn't get up alright with this hazy, bent posture which just curved her back forwards and smothered her discontented stomach. Breakfast for god's sake. Most important meal of the day. Yet: her eyes still tracing outside whilst she was taking her legs out to become active. Active so that she would walk around. Imbibed by the soft carpet, not rugged like the cushion. Pushing her foot further out; inch by inch by inch. The legs were appeased by the blood that helped them; but the saggy eyes and distortionate brain, the lack of any real clients to tell them what to do: made them move slowly. It had almost clocked in at a minute. Had it not taken so long: she could have grasped the cereal bowl by now. She quickly analysed the window again: douglas firs with ripe health, contented and preparing to cast a thick shadow veil of green arcs rugged across the glade: one tree leaning, one tree split, one tree swimming and with a trunk thicker and a length lingering higher than the others: stuffing them under its choppy thousand hands with thousand fingers. Sap. Sap like blood. Attention shifted back to her legs, aching. It was not torture, it was just a mini-battle. A morning dilemma, she told herself. That was normal for Arteghians. That it was normal to spend almost a minute getting up prematurely. Her legs never felt mature: she'd always cut then smooth and hairless. Baby skin. She didn't know why they never got any blisters, bruises, gashes, cancers; but her legs had always returned to perfect health. She didn't need baby oil; it was like they were immersed in them anyway. A silly thought: but if she cut the lather on the leg when she was sweating, would it be baby oil? Tips of her toes like nerve endings on teeth; being stunned by being pressed and pressed and pressed. Feelings like this shot up, congruent, mingling, conpromising with the other feelings.

"No." She wanted to stop all these lingering and stupid thoughts on legs. She just wanted to get up, but couldn't. This stress would be over soon enough. She would be up, she promised herself. Get some breakfast.

The sole of the foot felt fine. Like a massage to it: heavy pressure and then her dermis was embedded into the woollen carpet. Arcs of light nowhere like a romantic piece of Art in the dark. Cutting her loose from the deep Surrealism of life. Sweet release for them; but her legs were forever pandering. Begging for stopping. Just wanted to go back to rest. Heathin's mind only scolded them and said they had to do sonething eventually. You can't have the good without the bad, then. Then; something that bordered "yes" happened. You could see their visual mobility flashing through blink to blink. Heathin wasn't looking so it was a quiet celebration. But Heathin's legs didn't care and they gratified themselves. They felt very "yes". Her lower legs asked the sole of her foot for some indulgence with the carpet thing. The sole couldn't say yes. Lower legs began to feel insulted and deprived again. Crying. Crying sticky slimy morning residue; a thin layer of sebum like a parasite had been uschering there all day. Slow but steady progress by the legs; never a race. Never was a race. Felt like they could just get there pretty soon. This was actually clocking in at nearly a minute; truly a vision of real happiness if all the legs could start to do was move back and forth. No, they became hesitant. There was another microinstant delay. Pain was wearing down, but still there was a huge embargo as her legs spinned in a dance of fire despite their nervous fragility, like a revolution had caused some of the blood cells to move back and torch the others. She felt so scorched, so apprehended in these parts; millions and trillions of tiny little deaths. Blood cell after blood cell fell on this imbecilic little task. Legs felt like cream cheese as the blood slowly trickled around, the inside cells conducted energetic bubbling like a soda. Legs felt so melty, distortionate, disproportinate. She felt warmth like lava flowing through them; but it was the most temperate and pleasurable lava ever; her bones felt like they could just melt away. So disturbing, but just as much hypnotic as she submitted that her legs were of the consitency of cream cheese, that she wanted her ankles even less stable. It would be so much better if they could just float around softly in a pile of formless slime. That was her aim: to feel as if her legs would be formless slume and that the marrow and the entirety of the puffing, hurling muscle; flesh and tissue strong and thin; the ones that had ripped apart from this and the ones that kept their form; all to just submit and to borge into mindless, baseless creamy milky matter, melting mindlessly moreover, mushy meticulous and simply like stepping in a puddle. All were aims, not conciously by Heathin, but these were just thoughts that had been agreed on at a subconcious level, like a secret agent emanating from within her; laying the land of her body and occasionally exposing the odd, raw thoughts of her brain in little gestures like this. At almost the center of the leg: vigorous buzzing, jolty jeery excercise pain washing and washing over the tiny area right to the front out of strain and frustration. An after shock to a part further down which was the epicenter of this feeling. Right going first, burning more than left foot where it arose. All anonymous was the pain that was felt; sure, the nerve endings understood the pain. But to save Heathin certain discomfort and maybe even extreme pain: it was just reduced to tiny blip-bloop build ups of meaningless, baseless pain. Getting up in the morning pain. And yet still; they soldiered on; moving forward through the pain, disregarding it; looking forward to the lease. Like Tibetan Monks. Congealing. Melting. Bubbling blood. She couldn't stop the feeling as long as she was mobile at any rate; and she was moving. It was her main aim. But the bones, because of the time of day, because of how she'd inconvenienced herself by getting up so early, by buying barricades of self-discipline for not getting up too late and delaying the gratification of a lie-in: her legs, maybe even her arms a bit, they all felt like they were melting. Her brain maybe wanting to spare her the suffering of watching her limbs droop with anguish as they pushed out onto the soil surface of the Terra hidden beneath the carpet; and got caught in a loop of gravity which would press down upon them with no warning of their own: making the base for coming across the sentiment of sleep even smaller, snarling at how spacious her body was when it was asleep; breaking a few centimetres of ground just so it could cut out that precious and valuable space on her legs that was bringing her taller. Without any intent but one make the vertical space in her preoccupied, tired legs be viciously flattened: the top coming down at the bottom of it and the inertia, oh, the inertia: it lay upon it like an endlessly dense weight on a brittle, frail support which seemed to be condmened to collapse any third second that the heaving weight would shatter the useless exertions and her flesh would split open like a warm, humid egg.
Along the way there, Heathin had failed to notice something; Heathin's legs had arrived at their destination. Feet sailing on the carpet contentedly stopped; and it just averted to mild pleasure. Thankfully; action one, clocking in at about half a minute in what seemed like half a day: had resolved.

"Hu" she started to react and attack her actions. Followed by an incovenient pitch change; from the release, from her muscles cooling down for a while; squidgy and pudgy and most of the consistency just felt like it was gone, because, in actual fact: a lot of Heathin's tissue had gone. The tissue was shredded, needy and dependent again; like a warm length of plasma had cut through Heathin's fabric that made her an adult and condensed it into the primordial stage of a happy child, but now this pink, morphable hot fabric would just float free and tranquil in a pool of its own nutrients; doing an existential glide across a massive body. It played about with Heathin's senses a bit; jeering them and teasing them with strong thoughts of desperate, smouldering passion, and then turning them further than off; subtracting all of her energy. Then on again just as fast: positivity zapping through her. Then off, twice as fast, twice as painfully as much little energy. It threw it on again. It was off. On, off, on. Until Heathin's body cried at her nerves to stop this pointless suffering. But, her nerves were un-sympathetic and fetting excited from her body's unusual reaction: their quest for knowledge and excitement from toying with Heathin's mind was bottomless. They tested out some quick and snappy keywords so they could instanteneously frazzle her nerves with information after information after information. So satisfied, then utter despair, and then just again and again until Heathin got tired; but they wouldn't stop. They wanted to totally blast this to the limit. The juxtapostion so vast that the magnetism would blast Heathin's sense of reality to smithereens. "A" was for positivity, "B" was for utter dissatisfaction. Beginning, and they said they would never stop, but they had so much time to determine this. A, B. The scorching nerves were voluptuous and swollen, they stinged and cried out for help. The last thing they wanted was for it to start again. They couldn't feel, they were numb, all they had time to think about was the feeling of good and bad over and over again: it drove them insane and started to chip at their soul as the sifdeeence just got more and more dramatic; broader and broader. Broken as the tissue underneath the skin. A B. Hissing, howling, hurrying, huffing, hacking, fuming, flaming. ABAB. Crying, cutting, currying, ceeling over, curdling, curling, these thoughts were simply cuisine to the odd sensation: devouring the Surrealism bit by bit as they went; and planting more and more Surrealism flora, nearly into overgrowth. These thoughts didn't live of the fat of the land, though: they ate the person's ability to think rationally, turning them slowly insane; gnawing on their unique character full reaction, chewing the escence of the person. Gobbling, sucking, biting and spitting out a blank human . The A's and B's were emerging at what seemed like the same time now. It was one unexpressable, surreal character. Which meant: what did it mean for the nerves? Permanently dissensitised? The nerves couldn't generate any more signals. They didn't know if it was A or B and were terminated by overwork very, very quickly. Their bodies quickly vanquished and evaporated in the land of the forgotten; all that remained was one, final, horrifying telegram to the brain; studying all of this phenomena they still didn't even know. On arrival: it horrified Heathin's brain. But before Heathin on a concious level could see that horrifying message: it was expunged as a singular, concious syllable: "Ugh". And with that the permanent pain of the thought: brought to the infinite air.

This was followed by a loud and clearly expressed "Ugh!"; her voice a shrill shriek, letting go of the built up pain and silently fading out to contented grunts and reassuring "Hm"s. Now once she was doing this; she was brought to the attention of the aftermath of the pain. The release from it. She tried not too let go of this too soon or it would truely be torture. Allready wobbly. Allready discontented, she didn't want to push herself unwillingly to writhe in bed-desiring mental pain and a burn in her legs. But she had to. She had to cure the burn in her flaccid and wilted stomach that hadn't obtained a munch for over 10 hours. Not adapted to this nor callibrated. For once, but just as if it was the last time: her skin felt numb and stinging against the in-out-in-out textiles which jabbed between the sweat pores in her skin; like resting on a thin wall of bee acid, but it was all around you tickling your every orifice. Noting the wind around her; and her sticky, humid, oil covered skin: melting together the idea of fabric and skin; wrestling it into a temporary connection. This sting hummed at a constant pace in every inch of her thighs that wasn't practical - an itch had developed a whole plot of land and its new story was that it invaded the whole of Heathin's curvature; this kind of made a preassumption that it would stop Heathin from itching herself and let the itch be doused by time; because some of the places Heathin considered an itch were not only external, but internal places. This had to stop. She had powerful thoughts that disciplined her to cover up her pain, not jolt around like a dumb imbecille with the attention span of a gnat while she revised the window.

All this time; her pain, her internal struggle with the morning, was fitted with a background of a sunlit tree, foliage veiled in glorious peachy keen, bleached and dazzling sunlight hiding the colours of some of the dark green leaves. Finally; nice, postive, persuasive weather coming to avert people's attention had arrived. It was glorious to dwell in this view sometimes. The longer you hung out by the window, the more thoughts you gathered, and you got tone and atmosphere's flavours of a true vision of lonely but contented happiness, dusted with a tundraic landscape with suburban trees in a place like this: Heathin laced the metaphysical feelings into her mouth like stringent spaghetti.

If Heathin could express her desire for breakfast right now: it would stretch from the bacteria on her cheek to the currently developing edge of the universe. Long. So large was her capacity of hunger that her next action? It wasn't even considered. Instincts overrid any knowledge of reading, writing or community input to get food. If she didn't get food: her instincts said she would not make it through the day. This green-eyed monster started to push her to the kitchen.

Despite the morning blues, the blurred vision, the dead feeling of Heathin's nerves, the urge to get outside: her instincts, on the brink of snapping her fragile patience in two: forced her to take out her leg and move. Her right leg forced itself to take a step forward. Tearing her wandering eye away from the clean, sleek morning dew; emanating from the view. She felt like she haf to do this every morning. One day she had not; but on that very day, she spent until ten O clock oggling the view from her padded sofa arms, head craning in bed over to the panel and drawing it out for a total of three hours. Nothing but contemplating her navel. At least she knew it was an "outy" by now; a protrusion rubbing against her t-shirt meant she probably should have sensed that ages ago on the other hand. Nonetherless, her priorities straight on food and she didn't reminisce of the old fond memories any longer. Collecting them; and deposting the invasive gaseous thought that covered a huge area using a vaccum fit to organise even Heathin's cluttered mind. From side to side Heathin swung her head lazily. The first step with the right had landed; with the bristles lining the inside of her toe cleaning out and moisturing the savoury slippery surface of her silken sole. But, then it stopped. Gravity bounced back on the right, pounding it down and accusing it of its own weight problems; then it moved to the center, the waist to hip area that Heathin's torso and grumbling upset sack of a stomach layed their weight onto. In which area she could feel her stomach's hollowness from below, thanks to an especially sensitive organ that was located there that had a lot of nerves. These nerves exerted to the point that they could go through the diaphragm and the void of space echoes back to her brain. It felt like she needed to capacitiate that space with a healthy balance of nutrients. Grumbling, deprived, food was probably all it had. The strong stomach acid throttling about in wise, gravitational gestures to blindly pick at stalagmites of food

"Hold on, hold on. I'm going to eat something as soon as I can. Please, oh, please: the silly noises. I; I;... Make them s. Stop. Make them stop. I'm going." Heathin became less and less patient with the state of her corpus. Her mouth had just started salivating random words to satiate for the lack of mental activity she was able to perform. Her brain drooped and mushy; truly not kickstarted. Harsher and harsher as her sentence progressed. Only on her second step: she forbid her useless corpus from giving up this soon. Her expression became sharper, rolling up her fingers so that the base of the back of the finger dug into the palm, excavating discomfort and wrought anger.
"Stop! Please!" She boomed idly; facing a clean-looking varnished piece of wood that made up the wall. Orange in tint and tone varying in little lines; little lines dark and the little pattern around it getting more creamy and light in hue; curving around the only eye she could see. The patrern provided some sort of therapy: a starter for one on light relief. She'd thoughts of a broken, thoughtless mindless body: she conpared it to herself and couldn't draw many parallels. It iust made her feel as dumb in evaluating as any old uneducated person would do.

Her third step: a new attitude of worthlesness had appeared and disappeared and she felt refreshed and arisen anew. Wishing the same coukd be said for her maimed, irrecoverable legs. Hopefully they wouldn't just stay warm and slushy and distortionate like this for too mucb longer. She wished it wasn't any longer: but there was a fat chance such a simple scaffolding would be provided to her this late in life.

A slight pulse in part of the back of her smooth thigh: perhaps a pump of fat or a gathering of proteins jumping about. At this scalding, memetic heat: it wouldnt suprise her if they were doing such a silly and pointless thing.

Fourth step turned into fifth step. Heathin wasn't using her brain to numerate thr ammount of the gestures that she made. However, it was known: communicated, that Heathin was constructing he boundaries once again. Inch by inch, Heathin's body got more controllable again. Slowly, the sun dried legs, mictunating blood and sweat, swollen and recovering from the blistering pain of the morning: was reforming. It became easier to control and there were more succesfully recognised collisions. An oppurtunity such as this would be leapt at with tbe notion of purifying Heathin's body of its illing form. What was breaking apart was at large: binary searches conducted to reunite bits of Heathin with other bits of Heathin. The more the bits: the more the reimbursement of her air resistance. Her future pain was delayed, settled as being a redundant effect that promised it would strike again one day.

As her left leg swept across the floor, turning right then left: her right leg was gagged on energy to go in sordid pursuit of the kitchen. What was even better was that the rest of her body kept some reserve through all of this. It highered itself ever-so slightly from the ground, only quite folding some of the irregularly high wools on the carpet with her toe as it swerved past them in a tackling motion. She allowed her foot, toes first, to become weightful and gradually pass down; as the top of the leg shivered from left to right wih staggering fatigue and confusion. Come to think of it: her walking pattern down this place had been drunk to aay the least. But, Heathin didn't admit to having any addictive, alchoholic beverages coarsing through her blood at any point. It just must have been an odd wavelength that got her to occasionally become absentminded. It flowed to the left to start with, along the path, her leg jittered. Her toes began to fold on the carpet: instanteneously or what seemed like right after the touch or a millisecond delay: it seemed the contact with the carpet compelled Heathin to drag it to the right. It was the end of her fourth footstep.

Her face softened, her eyebrow no longer as stiff as a rock. It raised slightly to the ammount of work that was being looked for by her body now. She oversaw her now exposed in-out, thick tar shorts that were composed of fibrous rope and had two pockets on the front and underside. Parts could have faded due to fractions by the sun; the colour was similarly brown to the one in the sofa whence faded. Her legs curved so massively at the hips that the pocket was simply inaccessible; the fabric wasn't flexible and after a few centimetres of stretching it would sretch out and sandwich any previous three dimensional items placed in the pocket. It didn't care much for paper, which could still be fed in through the slit even though it ran the risk of unbinding the fourdriner layers and ripping out the flex of the paper to tatters.

Dealing out her hand; breaking the air slowly as it went, the seperated air washing onto her face. Face instantly tilted forward ever so slightly in response to the cool adding to her fatigue. It then slowed down, and so did the intricate force swirling through the unreactive gas, the force in the façade of a circular, promising path as it slowly died out. Once her hand felt intimate to her; she checked to see what organ it was hovering with her senses. After this: she gathered the data and knew what it was. Promptly, Heathin clenched her midriff with her index finger and thumb on her right hand, these were the most protrusive fingers to begin with. Weighing her mass; she gently rubbed her stomach, the consistency like hollow clay. Behind the t-shirt that was as if added onto her as an extra, dissentitised layer of skin. Thin, narrow, flat scales made rubbings on her clothing; further stinging like the ammount made earlier. This may be one of the reasons she was compelled to stop. During this; without even thinking or taking the time to examine her surroundings: she was almost centrally placed at the opposite of the left arm of the sofa; where one of the three less-well fitted floorboards was placed, at the end: carrying two nails. Heathin's left toe was pointed at the rim of the nail that waa beneath the floor. But Heathin couldn't concieve of this. Her stomach was stinging at the same rate as the front of her leg for a second; and then the stinging of the leg started on its way faster with the many ailments of this fine ligiment again. If she could; she would have the two pains go down together as her nerves had difficult trouble counting different measurements of pain at the same time. It ate up her energy. Heathin had often felt annoyed over not being able to control herself. Talking in a weird voice to herself when she wasn't concentrating. Maybe Heathin was one of the few people who managed to deliver themselves an earache. Gnawing away at the last delicious morsels of numbness: the story of the sensation was sbout to conclude in about a second or so. They'd eaten so much of Heathin's senstivity, as if they were entitled to steal from Heathin whatever they wanted. Ominous now that the fate of the sensation would take an interesting path of suffering of its own in a while. However: Heathin's legs had been their fine and hospitable lounge. They could barely stop eating away at this satiating experiment. Their toying had brung them great satisfaction, much more than they were familiar with. Aroused and entertained and gay because of Heathin's dizziness. Mocking Heathin and turning sonething with sentience into something that couldn't rationalise, treating it as if it was without a brain was so enjoyable. Also, it was fun to turn a human into a monster who couldn't rationalise: just letting all of her jars of emotions and thoughts and hopes and dreams haphazardly hang at random. Her whole sentience was taken hostage and the feeling was determined to drink it from out of her unprotected sensitivities. Sucking the nerve endings out of Heathin's frame, they'd decided: was the most fun they'd had in ten years. It was like serum being sucked up sleekly and slithering, and full of delicious nutrients. They didn't care if it meant Heathin had to give up her integrity. She'd just have to micturnate the produce for them until they could take no more.

They could take no more. This feeling was shaken: the bases of the sensation being reabsorbed into Heathin's sensitivity.

Utilising this: she shook her leg in the second from final second partaking in her next step. With her foot she traced an arc shape with a high degree of accuracy. She couldn't see it, but she could feel the smooth curves and orientation her movement had to her compared to the minutex precceeding. Her ankle was allowed to release its pent-up disharmony and accept the comfort of congruency with her surroundings. The nib of her toe and the base of her foot conceded to scribbling, roly-polying and darting fast around during this arc in the way a pencil conducted scrumbling. Dizziness was averted; since an earlier resistance from the diacontinuation of the dizzy feeling didn't allow for her to feel disoriented at this apparently tamer circumstance. Cutting the air she was; or rather pounding into the air resistance and being forced to face it: considering the surface of her base alone. The tip of her toe on the underside had a sensation like a pencil on paper when it was flying through the weightless sky. Heathin's ankle was supporting it to go there. Making it learn. It had to be disciplined as the rest did. Gases couldn't be released at the wrong time, she couldn't let herself yawn at the wrong time, she couldn't release fluids at the wrong time; or with some fluids: she was never allowed to release them. To be confined to her posessions: it seemed rhese civil rules were a necessary evil. She started considering other thoughts though; she packaged this decidedly intricate and potential-wringing subject in the folio of one of her random, spastic memories. One hard blink, that bound the watery adhesive of the nib of the top eyelid and bottom eyelid, joining in the center in a series of novelty folds before the muscles didn't allow Heathin to exert any more energy: this blink had Heathin covered for making sure this thought would be revised and used again. It felt extremely jailed but safe; like a maximum security prison where the prisoner wad contented on his own devices, and saw no clear goal worth exerting itsleg to in order to escape. Escape: the word curdled in amidst her other thoughts in her mind. It was eight steps she'd made away from her object of tempting confinement; this unbeatable primordial nexus, where her happiness was never surpassed. Alone to her thoughts: whistling, composing, drawing herself into anothef world under the warmth of the bed covers. That string was broken; though, her memories triangulated towards Heathin like a memetic grapple; however the desire for sleep had been overwritten with a desire to get outside. Reality was painful; she could feel her scolding body being burnt outside in by the harsh air of reality each morning; like leaving a pond your warm blood has just settled into: the air around it refrigerated you and bit you because you were absent. Your interest in the water, the different and pleasurable environment; Heathin thought: inevitably led to future suffering, and Heathin had played the game of dramatic irony with herself this way one too many times since she started to live here; so that half her brain knew that she would play for filling her life with unwarranted pleasure which would cause her mentality to lean towards the sensation of lowness; while the other side battled against these thoughts, because they were not powerful enough to involve themselves in the other battle that condemned them to face reality.

Facing reality; Heathin saw how her feet had newly bunched together; with few forces seperating them. She didn't flinch from here for a while, while she idly pondered this mental war; her head still craned so it aligned with her collar bone from the perspective of the forehead. Her eyes taking frequent bursts of blinks; making a low frequency, pleasantly organic squidge each time they bound together and unbound. Keeping her bodily structure tight and unyielding . Whilst her legs were cohabiting it let the diagonals on the outside of her legs redirect any jets of air that arose there on a roller-coaster path to unbalancedness. While the intimacy made her skin through the fabric grow more and more molten, and her legs started to quiver with tremendous energy. The slight nib at the end of her left shoulder blade kicking three times like she was recieiving a spasm. This frenzy caused her left leg, the thigh ligiment, to lightly dribble over her left with its micturnating and malleble, cleanly even heavy weight. It pressed against it and as it did; a little balance was lost when her left shin lanced out bravely and securely to the head of its run and back. Odours had not been recieved as of yet; nothing Heathin could smell was pungent enough to vibrate her sense of smell at the early hour it had stayed at. The gift of a nose with perfect condition cillia wasn't sensed most of the time by Heathin, believing it was partially broken and blocked half of the time for its inability to work as a sense. Heathin veered her head to the left a bit; and also rose her right leg in order to proceed. Of course the foot went ahead: but she hesitantly dismissed what was about to become a shaking of her head. Once she thought of complacency, denial of warmth, inability to be happy again: her velvet-bound book of life dimmed in the sunlight of the truth ever so slightly more. Along with that: the weight of her eyes storing and saving the weighty, unaviating plane of skin that crashed down into a harsh frown with much less effort than it should have required. Almost in a snap: they were down, and she couldn't think of why she ordered them to do it. It seemed to stem from a need to be thinking.

Sensing her right foot flash longitudally along the fibres in between the sensitive burrows between the compact scales on her sole: her right foot was tickled by the fabric before heading on a joyous and hopeful departure. More and more air covered them, and the exertion of gravity influenced them to momentarily plummet and actively wish to regain the velocity: which she sought after as soon as humanely possible to conclude this step as lightning and instanteneous as she could imagine, putting up with as little of the floating Siberian dust as she could while this step concluded. It made its move in a typical bridge-shape, but like a dancer: it was made out to be that her toes would contact the ground first. It was wishful thinking to plug her head and constantly show no respects to the movement of her foot; so she kept her head on where the center of her eyes were now. Perception allowed her to see that she was balancing between displaying her head high and low: and in the middle. The vidwo camera that was her eyes was spherical, and tilted to align at the center. Then, using the handling tool which was her brain; she allocated it to the point where her neck wouldn't make her blood rush to her head or deprived her head of life juice. It walked the middle road with a sensitive circulation and good allocation. The vocation was to make sure it stayed at this priveleged, spiritual balance and didn't get frustrated.

With a plummet: the next step was achieved. Gummy tendrils of the woollen carpet seemed to consummate with her toe using small lengths of material; underlying specfic and meaningless textures that allowed for passage of fabric underwards. Structures on her sole were usually candidates that looked like curved hook velcro and stored a single, andrgynous strand of the carpet's weird and dry and knitted hair, that was no longer in a position of looking like a sickly swelling noodlw that exposed gaps between the fibres but had seperated into an archetype with the same name; but with close-knitting capabilities. Happily, the foot claimed these; despite knowing that the intention of Heathin was to depart as soon as the step was over with the left foot. Sensing the inertia returning and the reunion with the tendrils that symbolised the footing: the unbound, unfocused left leg began its rushed journey.

This was not the raise that would alleviate anything but the temporary stress of the intake of support of the whole body. The panic from the nerves in the ear accelerated when this foot went higher; soon enough it dropped again. Left foots like Heathin's that had cinesthetic potential had always learnt their transport in a flash, tisdue reforming into a map that was ungodly detailed about moving succesfully and securely in the arch-bridge shape. This was its preferred method; and no alternative truly surpassed the simple and complacent nature of this subtle footstep. Toe pressed in against the carpet like a piece of chocolate cake; and the disparity of semi-permeable liquid fascinated her more than she thought; she didn't think her toe was this ecstatic and malleble. But it pressed on diligently, referring to adequate sources of comfort in order to overcome the slight sting in the nerve. There was no need to blow it out of proportion: the escape from reality won this tiny battle These intrusive ceremonious, citable, civilised steps were drawing the line between the bed place and the cinesthetic workshop known as the table. Ah, good memories lingered here from dreariness last night; picturing her sorrows away in silly little captured fables on light cartridge paper from a local fourdrinier machine. Agriculture, dependency on capital, death: any problem she had, she could remember; it seemed important to her while she could to get them down. In a brief moment of Cynic sometimes: she sought out and terminated some of the older, more infantile stories. And it was likely they'd do it again. The waste paper basket would transfer freshness into the air if it had a power source. Biomass seemed like a good investment for it. She realised she was getting tangential and quickly threaded her conversation with a neat bow by once again passing pulp and trees through the bases of thought making; joining the end of this perpetuation to the start, and then exiting into reality by wrestling on the fabric. It would give way to communicate her eventual release afterwards; in any case.

Playing with these cards: dealing them all so early, moving so timidly like a publicly exposed fish. All she could think of was the exposure of the least camera she'd had in her face after becoming aware of this. It was so long ago. She didn't own one. Remarking it as a pointless invasion of privacy, where the cascade of information would bring her unfortunate vessel and livelihood to an abrupt close. It wouldn't kill her, but it had traces of clinical residue. Endure too many of these, or exert the effort to: and you wouldn't see the point any more. The blue light of devices made her brain squirm.

And it would be too late to take any of this back when she raised her right leg for moving again. This time it sensed slow, narrow bristles. Perhaps an inconsistency of carpet texture? Or maybe a different way in moving? The pattern of impression sure was different, more like a psychadelic knot creeping out her experimenting feet. Flaws washed out of them for a brief heavy immersion in air. As if ordered to: it was flinching and making tiny, forced human accidents. They could barely be considered this, since Heathin could resolve to having some impact on this. It stirred the air like the contents of a risotto; in an octopus' eight shape. Ominpotence over even this small space made her reality feel expansive and vast. It was a large world for a moment. Until the size of the universe was remembered again and concieved into rational perspective. The thought wasn't even too irrational for the wall, so it wasn't an unconcious criticism. Walls of flesh were only utilised to filter thoughts and ideas before transporting them into the real world; not the fake. And so this criteria met with the specific demands of the rellevance of information not to be terminated. But the thought was terminated and made to cease to exist by Heathin. Luckily, if people do actually live in a reality in their heads: they were not able to concieve large enough with their mentality to get an out of their own thoughts in their head: wake up, stop seeing the tints, gamut and tone of this world and experience the true, overwhelming informatiom conveyed by the rules of a second dimension. The whole thought made Heathin's foot shriek without noise. Where the reverberations would have came: trampolined itself to an additional five centimetres berth; that at the end of the path she did try to translate to longitudal. Diagonal was the direction that the foot headed out on come the end of the shopping for air. It was stored aroynd her calf. It tested for up and down variable movements abruptly; just an intricate test to determine whether the foot would benefit from recurring or terminating. Nib of her toe, that was hanging in a curved postion: started tugging and elevating the foot to the leg horizontally for a further portion of time. There were two folds in her foot and it was required that the underside was acquainted with the underside when this happened; which exposed the two font ligiments on her foot to the downwards laying postion haphazardly. The gap had yet to stop frustrating Heathin to withdraw her foot a bit; and her ankle raising the battlement of the jabbed spherical shapes in her soft and mush pile foot. Their method of moving was akin to nodding, and they seemed to rejoice. Held further up in entirely pricate and conserved effort put in; in order to sustain this leightmotif of toing and froing. Checking this box seemed like a last screening of animated anticipation for getting to the kitchen. What a goal that seemed to be.

Briefly she contemplated and described this goal. Yes, it was proving to be a disproportionately solid task. It wasn't fair to compare the joy of the reward to the lone person who worked for this goal on a one routr direction witn instant gratification, and not being allowed to wither, to someone who hadn't a clear way of going about it. Maybe they would have to endure some dissensitising like the organ of the gut heading more floppy and vague as she progressed.

At this point: her stomach felt like a pancake. It was drooping over on her diaphragm like a despicable lazy pancake, the base acting as the consistency of a pancake. Deflated like an unstressed elastic band. Consecutive and consecutive gasps for sustenance breaching from off the substrate. She wasn't feeling well at this point; her whole body had a certain degree of torment from the defeatedness feeling. Sloppy surrogate slipping sloping sly slick slit stomach, sickly surrendering to sly sloping sentiments of sagging limbs. She could feel her gut shutting down. The tissue had been tightened so ridiculously painfully confining by its prying for energy that now all it could do was flop like an unfertile flat floating faint fish. Heathin's back craned forward during this at a relatively small angle as opposed to the last large angle she pulled these muscles to; so the base of her stomach was split by her chest muscles close to the recieving end. This lightly forced her to move forward her pelvis and allow for a minuscule gap between her legs; which was commisioned by her thigh gap. She was cautious not to break her line of sight with the table, just adjusting it to a lower perspective and recording some more of the carpet in her vision. Her chest was slightly deflated when she maintained this pose, less like a bird's avid enthusiastic exposed chest and more like a sly fox's. The weight pressing upon her caused her lower mass to spread its weight; not quite like butter: but as a thin dough spread would allow for shifting out this surface area. It expanded outwards, where it went: squashing the length upwards into width across in an exchange of weight. Thankfully, this did not breach past the space where her pelvid was allocated, and generally she didn't appear stout by doing that yet. Her belly shifted out for a couple of seconds in an unflattering croak. She decided that it was demanding passage to the kitchen. Once again it concealed itself beneath the other tissue.

Elevating her right foot, moving was never its speciality. At a rate that demanded a velocity increase of about three centimetres per second for the upward diagonal. Her left foot folding back, as she was not going to walk in stutters anymore, she'd decided. Getting across as fast as she could to the kitchen to relieve her needs for food still stood high, although it jolted to the right a couple microinstants because it was too hard for it to maintain its leverage and plan its descent at the same time. Getting to the top, the centimetres passing over a veil of centuries, she was going to hover her leg here for a further one second. But then gravity impacted, and muliplied her piously aligned folded left foot which gravity'd nothing against by her right leg's inaliable stature which brought anger to its eyes. Of course: it would drop suddenly and violently as revenge for its tedious laziness. It stooped down likd a crashing water droplet; lined with potential energy. It blazed like a fiery demon and was scowered by redded pigment when its violent descent had concluded. The flesh extending outwards and inwards in time that couldn't be recorded. It had been sheltered by the cover of the table; in an awkard position where exclusively the toes had access to the cool shadow that was casted by the inside of the table. Or it would; had the light striked from a different direction. But it seemed not in this dimension with the third one concieving an annoying visual depth. From this depth: her eyes finally highlighted the back wall. Thank goodness it was still there. Coated dark auburn, acsending upward and the boards slanting outwards almost as much as roof tiles. Heathin could percieve lazy, normal-sized cracks in the wood down the lanes with eyes. For the bottom three planks: darkness from the table bit at the information that was traversing a bit. It required a clever sort of strain to make out what it was. Nonetherless, the exhilarating quiz question made its way on stage again:

'What does the term breakfast; meeeeeean?'

Aptly, Heathin formulated a reply to her own voice in the head. She wasn't required to do anything, but there were specific actions that looked like her first aid kit in this context. These actions were few and far between, but their enthuastic and commited attachment to data; made them actiond with medicinal, productive properties that would locate Heathin's areas with strain; in this case the forehead; and reimburse them with vivacious, sweet healing serum. This feeling described that looking up would help her achieve a deeper connection. 'Break the fast' she spoke, through the genderless, anonymous lips of her head representation. Reminding her of her goal, even though it only took three seconds out of the day to make it this way with this tremendous portion of haste: what she'd just said was half the battle against getting to the uncatalouged kitchen room. Depth perception no longer appealed; casting her eyes off the wooden planks and assigning them the 'L' arch securely, efficiently and painlessly. Performing the first part of the 'Molecule Dance' would hopefuĺly turn her to the right direction. A bee sting went through her eyes when she attempted to look at the upper bar on the 'L' arch that was no longer catalouged by her peripherals. Forced to look at something else; she grasped the carpet with her vision. A usual victim of her uncompromising eyes. It rendered some problems in Heathin's eyes by just that: rendering. Trying to pick up every single follicle in the carpet was a nightmare. She counted atleast, she estimated: eight hundred and fifty seperate conclusions of colour to black, neutral, void and dilligent gothic punctuative tone that seperated the carprt into millions of seperate tiny canyons, bridges and valleys. She felt her whole head jostle as it assumed the new posture, and her legs were rather worn by the sudden exchange. However, one molecule dance per forty fice degree turn seemed like an excellent solution. The base of her left foot was facing less of the direction of her torso than the right; untidily postioning itself and conditioning it at about six degrees from the point of her original torso. The right? Was that any better? The right foot was like a dog when it came to adjusting to turns. Its speciality. It was almost mathematically aligned with the direction she was facing. It may have slanted a microinstant away in either direction; but it was impossible for it to be perfectly straight and to be human. By this time, the burden of progressing forward stood like this: because of how idle she was; she felt like she was reading an essay of information between each step, before she could choose to move forward or to stay. The answer would up to this point, consider moving forward as the best option and then go for the juggular on the base of the idea that built the thought; a rectangular abstraction which had four sides for the purpose of releasing the vertices into the ammount of pure energy these shapes were given in the form of a mass value that would turn to voltage after it was picked, allowing Heathin a portion of energy from the food she'd last consumed, usually for this task consisting mainly of minerals and vitamins from the small ammount of fruit she'd found herself eating and many carbohydrates; a wheataholic that she was; to move. Proteins were the obsolete thinga to have in this bunch of energy on the other hand; but they mainly were allready in the joints before the energy was released like regular joeshmoe workers. Less of a burden: more of a whimsical morning distraction that encouraged a deeper envisualising and asessment of generally useless information. Little bits of uncompromising information with a tactical prowess and useful talent were surrounded by a generic slog of other data that was compiled into knowledge by the addition of relevant variables and calculations. Although there weren't alot of numerical figures in this batch of knowing.

It was suprising how Heathin's hair hadn't distracted her vision yet. Perhaps due to the slow and steady pace; next to no hair was gathered upon her clean face. It was a harrowing thought to think about; how not one dead hair had slipped onto her even after that turn. Maybe it was how much it was cut at the front; that made it feel like Heathin bore a binded helmet or coathood. It was more flexible like a coat's hood, but also stood like a material. Waving left, back then when she made a turn. It also raised when Heathin's foot had fallen. This was considered an unnecessary detail to Heathin; arguing that if it kept out of the way of her goal: her hair was maintaining itself to an unimaginable margin of success: but considering the enemy it only resulted in a neutral victory for its enemy's lack of threats. The pain of the legs was much more than the follicles of hair; only having to endure one light tug per step. At the very most, it was like being prodded with the shape of three ovular ellipses at the end of a dramatic sentence. Gifts of health in the serum hadn't seemed to expire yet; endlessly giving of positive thoughts onto the canvas of Heathin's subjected body. Soft, serene and loose became all of her sharp vertices; which seemed to become pleasantly dulled to allow of for a surface area big enough to fill them with comfort. In one instance; warmth and comfort had romantically brightened her whole set of feelings for personal desires, hopes and dreams; lightly hinting that these ambitiona weren't far fetched in the slightest; that she was right. Positivity overrid all negativity in a glorious moment of non-critical union. Her inner critic left for a moment; and for an instance: the wall of flesh's rational beliefs were averted. Allowing Heathin to express her inner child. Maternal warmth wrung through her like a lukewarm blanket. She felt it in her hands; the desirably high blood flow, appeasing her in a comfortable degree; and a lack of need for her to worry about bodily function. The strife of even her stomach and legs, once gushing out with feelings that manifested random aversions of spikes and jolts of lactic acid:. Making all edges of her being feel like pillows she was able to rest upon. Feeling like she should manipulate her facial expression to reflect her mood.

Her lips grew into a beam; compressing her large and temperate cheeks to the right. Strangely, philia coarsed through her smile. Her lower lips maintaining the dominance over her top lips; and both curving in a colon upwards. Liking the taste of her beautiful, sweet caremelised upper lip when she allowed her incisors to dig into the tundra: mining it for even further affection. It provided sugary, glucose-rich water of her own personality and stylistic flavour. It was pressed on by the lower lip; and she lightly sipped this pleasant flavour. Contracting and bringing out her lower lip in a continuous pattern with every blissful intake. The next step would as easy as breathing, she told herself. Before this she'd compared it to being as easy as going to sleep. It made no noise, the foot gratifying itself on the serum also. If half the battle with being mobile had allready concluded: it made this a peaceful resolution to the war. Muscles throughout her whole body, the stinging was doused by the pouring of the serum of awareness over the serum of morning discomfort. It was a pretty unclimatic and generic end by now to the problem. It was always the serun that defeated the two villains and gave her strength in the morning, but she still appreciated it for the noble and titillating experience of relief. It was the good kind of torture; the one that let you linger in the postitive for a very long time and excluded much of the bad. Her belly could be sensed getting back up on this feeling of hope; ready to allow for passage of food again; avidly waiting.

Now that her body was once again fertile: she aimed to stop procrastinating. It would break the peace if she moved; into two or so disproportionate fractions that wouldn't fit back together by any other method but total reconstruction of the tiny little gap inbetween that made the two shapes not fit together. The process to fix the peace would be finnicky and long. Heathin cultivated a goid response to the turmoil at this point, however. They would just prolong the inevitable, and embrace the peace for a bit longer, letting a phase pass, maybe a few seconds, just to extract the notion of hope from resolve that was in the peace. She let her eyes grow heavy; lightly her lower lid felt her lower cheekbone, vibrating like an ecsatic butterfly.

Letting the feeling be plucked from the tempoarary feeling into a less temporary compartment of her mind. Then, she felt ready.

But she would dwell a little longer in this sea... coming through... leaving anything that was causing her pain at the current moment here. Dramatic irony couldn't punish her here when she dropped her feelings. Quivering; all of her senses dreading what was coming next. She had to make the next step.

Step. She would step. Any minute now. It would be the left foot and it would be simple. It wouldn't be hard. It was amazing at moving. Its soft and flaccid skin as sleek as the laid-back movement itself. It began again, starting for the eighth suspension of her foot on this slowly progresseing journey. Quickly she reminded herself of the concept of time: it had been only thirty seconds. Her life was going to last forever. She knew that. She dismissed the thought that she didn't and claimed any reward for it that presented itself. Once again, her sole having normal distribution of mass when it was in the air. Unless, the person considered that the normal distribution of mass was achieved by not standing. In any case: it attained its natural, unimpressed form to a high degree of finery. The animations in this movie she was playing must have taken eyons to complete. And yet: there they were. Presented to a person as significant as her. This was ironic: half of rhe people in the neighbourhood knew not her name. Nonetherless: she returned to commentate on the progress of her left leg. She looked at how involved it was, and how it adapted its movements within the same instance as the instance it had taken a wrong turn. Heathin asessed this; able to give a visual description as her head was tilted down towards the floor: there was one part where on the arc of the bridge it broke the curve in the movement a bit, but it quickly corrected this by making it out to be that the semi-circle she was going in was just wider; a bit of a sloppy execution, but it fit the job of covering her flaw up. It retaliated against some random pressure that upset the foot by giving a different shape to her foot. This was achieved by levering her toe. Thesr two results were relative, and seemed to lean on being very close to the end of the event. How very jostle and merry this whole scenario turned out to be; perfect dictatorship by the senses beared by her left leg; a pure mathematical genius must have lived inside of her left foot. It was time to descend: no problems to answer to; it just swept aside the air and slowly came incoming to land. When it did land; it was inevitably the sly toes that took footing first. She felt she could support herself on these and the base of her foot alone, and exclude the back. But she wasn't sure whether she could maintain that and her balance if she tried to get the other foot to belong to that school of footing also. She wasn't as elegant as a stag when it came to her steps. Or as quiet as an unseen highschool student who managed to evade all problems the education system cast upon her; she was a person who lived alone. Or atleast: she hoped she did. Not being upstairs in a while made her not quite so sure. But she hadn't any notions of another prescence in quite a while.

She hadn't felt close to anyone in a good number of years. Not that she didn't want to support anyone, help anyone: she merely couldn't find anyone who was under any strife in this part of Arteghia. It was impossible; since she'd evaded Arteghian politics as much as she could.

The thought about markings in the wood; and eyes in the wood; it grew less relevant after this.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Heathin Cassie Emerson Character Portrait: Dacarn Veldrin

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Heathin was hungry, so she got up and walked behind the couch. It was too early and she was tired.

It was at that time that there appeared a shangling, tripping, blunt, dismembering sound of a soft object on wood. The moment all of her had been waiting for: a blunt and stupendously formal knock at the door.

Who could it be but someone with great authority? Countryside scrounger, Heathin, mever to the city she did go: was unable to say whether she could know.

It reminded her of the skin of scallops; that faint texture of knock. She couldn't pick up on the exact pattern on the knock; too flowing and blurry. And, in a huge hurry: she wanted to pounce upon that and open the doorknob. But, no. Her legs would not allow.

She'd to rely on a dialouge that could penetrate the door; giving him the idea that he or she was allowed to come in; without having to notify them.

With an almighty breath in: she gathered every hanging decibels in her voice box and compiled them for massive use; of harrowing, styrup-destroying noise. This shouting would probably form a node in her voice all its own:

"How do you do?" She shouted, trying very hard to mix clarity with the tone of a question.

"Please; come in if you want! I'm finding it ; er; really difficult to move to the door! I'm just having breakfast care to join?...!"