[Despite his usual pessimism regarding absolutely everything he's involved in, Carlisle finds himself pleasantly comforted by Qubit's reassurance, enough so that has to fight the grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth. Qubit has his utmost trust in this matter; he won't let him down. It will be fine.]
In a moment, then.
[And with that, Carlisle hangs up. He continues walking until he reaches his destination, attempting to cling to that reassurance, but it fails him soon enough. Try as he might to not fixate on the details of what could happen should their plan go wrong, he still finds himself thinking of the greying grasses and twisted trees of Bear Den. He cannot help but see them when he recalls waking last time, coming to his senses to find the area all around him as withered and decayed as his home; the dead patch in the woods near the barn stands as a testament to how destructive his abilities can be, and how close he was to losing himself to them.
If only it had vanished, like the swamp and the men who attacked Kieran. That wouldn't change what he did, though.
He pushes his glasses up, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. Why is he like this? Why does he have to be like this? Aren't there others more deserving of such a miserable existence? Why is that anyone puts up with him when he can't do anything right? When his mere presence is a terrible threat to everyone who inhabits the colony?
Pulling in a deep breath, Carlisle tries to curb those thoughts once more. Qubit's statement about the other Carlisle comes to mind. I supposed some must value you quite a lot, he tells himself. You are unwell. This... is your nature as an aberration. Do what you have to — focus on that, and Qubit will handle the rest.
With one more breath, he kneels within the copse, working on his preparations one step at a time: he sets his sleeping stone on the ground, then the page with the proper glyph for his tea, along with his mug. From his pocket, he retrieves the tiny jar with the paw plant clippings. Into the mug those go, along with conjured water. Mug onto the glyph, then—
Carlisle hesitates, his hand trembling above the activation point. It'd be safer to put himself to sleep now, but Qubit wanted to observe — and Carlisle wants him to observe, just in case something goes wrong immediately.
And what of it does? What if it's not the slower reaction they're hoping for, but is quick, jagged, merciless like the black lines of corrosion he expelled when healing Kieran? They cut across the grass toward the trees, draining the energy from them in an effort to stabilize him. They could have drawn from any one of the people around him: it could have been from Pratt, or Ben, or Kieran himself. It could have been Ami. It could be Qubit this time.]
You're not well.
[He insists that aloud, as though it'd be more convincing. His fears continue to prey on his mind as he takes a seat in the grass, hearing it crunch unpleasantly beneath him; it is already dried and withering.]
no subject
In a moment, then.
[And with that, Carlisle hangs up. He continues walking until he reaches his destination, attempting to cling to that reassurance, but it fails him soon enough. Try as he might to not fixate on the details of what could happen should their plan go wrong, he still finds himself thinking of the greying grasses and twisted trees of Bear Den. He cannot help but see them when he recalls waking last time, coming to his senses to find the area all around him as withered and decayed as his home; the dead patch in the woods near the barn stands as a testament to how destructive his abilities can be, and how close he was to losing himself to them.
If only it had vanished, like the swamp and the men who attacked Kieran. That wouldn't change what he did, though.
He pushes his glasses up, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. Why is he like this? Why does he have to be like this? Aren't there others more deserving of such a miserable existence? Why is that anyone puts up with him when he can't do anything right? When his mere presence is a terrible threat to everyone who inhabits the colony?
Pulling in a deep breath, Carlisle tries to curb those thoughts once more. Qubit's statement about the other Carlisle comes to mind. I supposed some must value you quite a lot, he tells himself. You are unwell. This... is your nature as an aberration. Do what you have to — focus on that, and Qubit will handle the rest.
With one more breath, he kneels within the copse, working on his preparations one step at a time: he sets his sleeping stone on the ground, then the page with the proper glyph for his tea, along with his mug. From his pocket, he retrieves the tiny jar with the paw plant clippings. Into the mug those go, along with conjured water. Mug onto the glyph, then—
Carlisle hesitates, his hand trembling above the activation point. It'd be safer to put himself to sleep now, but Qubit wanted to observe — and Carlisle wants him to observe, just in case something goes wrong immediately.
And what of it does? What if it's not the slower reaction they're hoping for, but is quick, jagged, merciless like the black lines of corrosion he expelled when healing Kieran? They cut across the grass toward the trees, draining the energy from them in an effort to stabilize him. They could have drawn from any one of the people around him: it could have been from Pratt, or Ben, or Kieran himself. It could have been Ami. It could be Qubit this time.]
You're not well.
[He insists that aloud, as though it'd be more convincing. His fears continue to prey on his mind as he takes a seat in the grass, hearing it crunch unpleasantly beneath him; it is already dried and withering.]