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26 October 2006 @ 02:33 pm
Harth sits in the dark.

S'nothing new.

The dark's where he belongs, what he'll bring to the world, but hell if it ain't depressing. Especially now-


Means nothing. This is home, this is business, not allowed there. Dirty water soaks through the seat of his pants, icy-cold. It doesn't bother him - but that fact does, a little. Sometimes it seems so far away, and then comes right back and hits him again, and hurts more than he really likes to think about.

An' there I go again.

He gets up, filthy water sloshing around his ankles, thin hands slipping moodily into his pockets. He can feel the small cloth packets of herbs still in there, slightly damp. Wouldn't normally be able t'get them in Haddyn, not without stakin' out somewhere in the Uppers. And even then, not all the right ones.

The boy smiles faintly in the gloom, not exactly happily, and jumps through a crack in the wall. From one pocket he pulls out the smallest package, tied tightly together with string. Wires spark as he pulls them from the wall-

(Up above, one of the dim streetlights sputters and goes out)

-and holds the cloth to the exposed wires until it smoulders despite the dampness, and produces a stream of musty smoke. He leaves it on the floor as the tiny space slowly fills with the constricting scent of burning herbs.

And slowly he slides down to sit against the wall, eyes falling shut (the better to see you with) as he breathes it in.




(Go back t'sleep, scaredy)