4'10" OF RAW, CONCENTRATED ANXIETY (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
darkov) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2019-03-26 06:56 pm
darkov) wrote in maskormenacelogs2019-03-26 06:56 pm
it's always that 1 in a million chance
WHO: Marty, Cass, Bodhi
WHERE: MF4
WHEN: March
WHAT: conjuration misfire
WARNINGS: blood! and body horror! bones exposed to the sun y'all!
With the days growing longer, Martin takes to waiting until it's almost suppertime to go outside to conjure -- until the sun's finally just about blotted by the tree line and the few houses in the way, so looking skyward isn't so bright and rough on his eyes. (He'd tried conjuring once before midday with one of the many pairs of sunglasses Rex has brought home, but when they popped off his face in the middle of conjuring, he couldn't see where the lance was going to land and nearly smoked himself in the face had he not jumped out of the way.)
He does this at least once a week, if not more, if motivation (or boredom) strikes. It's a good idea, the same way regular exercise in general is, and he knows he ought to be more rigorous about it, but the line between "just enough" and "the excess imposed upon him due to the dire nature of his life's work" is still rather blurry. Once is the bare minimum; twice takes the edge of mounting guilt.
By the time the sliding door from the kitchen sounds, he's already caught the lance and was counting off seconds until it'd start to feel inconvenient to keep its shape; the distraction breaks his concentration, and the whole thing disintegrates without a word. He looks over his shoulder, blinking a few times.
"Oh. Hello, Cassandra."
WHERE: MF4
WHEN: March
WHAT: conjuration misfire
WARNINGS: blood! and body horror! bones exposed to the sun y'all!
With the days growing longer, Martin takes to waiting until it's almost suppertime to go outside to conjure -- until the sun's finally just about blotted by the tree line and the few houses in the way, so looking skyward isn't so bright and rough on his eyes. (He'd tried conjuring once before midday with one of the many pairs of sunglasses Rex has brought home, but when they popped off his face in the middle of conjuring, he couldn't see where the lance was going to land and nearly smoked himself in the face had he not jumped out of the way.)
He does this at least once a week, if not more, if motivation (or boredom) strikes. It's a good idea, the same way regular exercise in general is, and he knows he ought to be more rigorous about it, but the line between "just enough" and "the excess imposed upon him due to the dire nature of his life's work" is still rather blurry. Once is the bare minimum; twice takes the edge of mounting guilt.
By the time the sliding door from the kitchen sounds, he's already caught the lance and was counting off seconds until it'd start to feel inconvenient to keep its shape; the distraction breaks his concentration, and the whole thing disintegrates without a word. He looks over his shoulder, blinking a few times.
"Oh. Hello, Cassandra."