[ The past few nights have been rough, one bad dream after another, and there's a childish part of Ephemera that resents that because he'd thought things had been going well for once. That he'd settled into a routine of sorts, found a place with solid footing to stand on. Even found a couple people to stand there with him, and watch his back. Did the impossible, he'd thought, because not so long ago he'd been done with that sort of thing. Done with other people, done with being Ephemera entirely. The lines had been clearly defined, drawn in the metaphorical sand, and he'd defended those lines viscously, and occasionally with great violence. Until, one day, they shifted. And he shifted with them.
And it hadn't been so bad, for a while. He had friends. Has friends. And maybe he's never slept well, maybe he's never managed to crash in an actual bed since he got tossed in here, but there was proximity. He had people, and trust in the distance he allowed them to close. Things he'd gone without for years and hadn't realized he still wanted. Not until they were offered, seemingly without reservation or hidden tricks.
It's going well. He ought to be happy, or at least content with his place in the scheme of things. Instead, he's tired. Feels flattened down by all the shit that's been dragged up to the surface, and all the sleep he's not getting. But there are limits to what he can escape with insomnia, and facts that have been dragged up to the surface and now need to be dealt with.
Case in point. ]
Drake?
[ The question is a wary one, Ephemera dressed in his usual uniform of steel-toed boots and a jacket thick enough to conceal his varied weapons. He's got a hood pulled up to hide the scars as much as possible and touches his knuckles to his mouth before he can think to stop himself, a nervous gesture. This man is a stranger to him, but still ended up in his dream. That ought to be reckoned with, somehow, and Ephemera's come to do that even if he's tired and feels worn flat, slow to make connections. He has to do this. It wouldn't be right to leave it be. ]
Safehouse
And it hadn't been so bad, for a while. He had friends. Has friends. And maybe he's never slept well, maybe he's never managed to crash in an actual bed since he got tossed in here, but there was proximity. He had people, and trust in the distance he allowed them to close. Things he'd gone without for years and hadn't realized he still wanted. Not until they were offered, seemingly without reservation or hidden tricks.
It's going well. He ought to be happy, or at least content with his place in the scheme of things. Instead, he's tired. Feels flattened down by all the shit that's been dragged up to the surface, and all the sleep he's not getting. But there are limits to what he can escape with insomnia, and facts that have been dragged up to the surface and now need to be dealt with.
Case in point. ]
Drake?
[ The question is a wary one, Ephemera dressed in his usual uniform of steel-toed boots and a jacket thick enough to conceal his varied weapons. He's got a hood pulled up to hide the scars as much as possible and touches his knuckles to his mouth before he can think to stop himself, a nervous gesture. This man is a stranger to him, but still ended up in his dream. That ought to be reckoned with, somehow, and Ephemera's come to do that even if he's tired and feels worn flat, slow to make connections. He has to do this. It wouldn't be right to leave it be. ]