[ Notes abandoned with one last clipped scrawl and a sharp point, crystal switched off entirely, Mr. Dickerson pinches the joint back in for another deep draw as he turns more fully on his seat to face her. There are silver shavings prickled in fine at his temples, grey quills in his beard. His ear is torn, his cheek is scarred across the bone. The cage of his left hand around the elfroot spooling smoke through his knuckles is stiff, slightly crooked.
no subject
It’s been a rough couple of years for everyone. ]
You’re real.