koerant.

Honora: a success story.

Liege: visible, cloak gone.

Chimaera: present, always, but forgiven.

Skeeter: was here, is gone- chased out of the room by M.P.’s better half.

Grier: in town.

Coggs: discovering the joys of collaboration.

The Often Orphan: appears from time to time; watches, silently; disappears.
Fractal follows suit, doppelganger in tow.
It’s not a big deal.

Albertina & The Rolling Thunder resolve their differences, Resolve themselves.

The Banshee has screamed off elsewhere.
Her ghost will haunt, but will no longer hurt.

The Mistress leaves her mess on the table.

Yvaine wears the boots.

Dr. Physician: The Mistress is reflected in his every diagnosis.
She sure is an intimidating act to follow.

The Man With the Blood-Red Eyes dogs her steps & marrs her nights.
When she shivers, it has little to do with the cold.


Day in, day out...

ata.

Skye is dancing.

Liege leads.

It works perfectly, despite his small stature.

The Mistress stares in open astonishment.

Skye hasn’t danced a step in almost five years.

Her waltz is flawless.

The diamonds on her character shoes glint in the studio light as they glance off The Master’s broken limbs.

Hairline fractures.

For now.

His hands clutch tufts of Hedge’s feathers. 

Neither are completely incapacitated as of yet; the applicable phrase is “in hot water.”

Skeeter’s been bound & gagged- he’s old news.

Swivel will be his cellmate. 

All characters accounted for, the dance whirls on.

Skye is has been will be

^ dances.

boira.

The Mistress doesn’t know what to do with her head.
M.P. doesn’t know what to do with her eyes.
Swivel doesn’t know what to do with his feet.
Skye doesn’t know what to do with her smile.
Grier doesn’t know what to do with his soul.
Coggs doesn’t know what to do with his cerebrum.
Skeeter doesn’t know what to do with his shoulders.
The Master doesn’t know what to do with his clouds.
Elsie doesn’t know what to do with her inclinations.
Enna doesn’t know what to do with her cells.
Mismatch doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
Sphinx doesn’t know what to do with her answers.
Liege doesn’t know what to do with his pulse.
Chimaera doesn’t know what to do with his research.
Hedge doesn’t know what to do with Its alterations.

Uncertainty is entirely underrated.
Uncertainty is entirely overrated.

makiramay.

M.P. would like to say she swept into the room.
It’s the only way to make an entrance. 

It would be a lie.

On the swing, Skeeter gnaws a toothpick lazily.

“Quit trying so hard and just siddown already.”

She bristles; reaches into her dress for a retort.

“You’re fresh out. Besides, a porch doesn’t count as a room anyway.”

Scowling, she plops down beside him and starts in on the bag of cherries she holds.
The fruit has never been consumed with such a vengeance.

Mid-chomp, she squints up at him.

“How do you do that, anyway?”

He chuckles.

“Easy. You’re not me.”

M.P. avoids his eyes and wishes she didn’t understand.

zadano.

“Only the good die young, they say. Such a fucking user-friendly equation: be a dick, live a long life. Works for me.”

Sphinx files her nails as she spews her justifications.
Skeeter doesn’t mind, so long as she cleans up after herself.
Literally and figuratively.

“This is bullshit.”

She looks up, only playing at surprise.

“Yeah.”

He yawns. 

“I mean, not like I care, y’know? But it is.”

She doesn’t even glance at him this time, instead working determinedly at changing the shape of her pinky nail from square to round.

“I know. You don’t care about anything.”

He can’t argue, so he throws a shrug her way.
Lady has a point.