Calan
Calan notices the yawn only when it has already gotten halfway out of him, which feels unfair, because a person should get at least a little warning before his own mouth tries to betray him in front of a perfectly good adventure. He clamps it down late enough that it still counts, unfortunately, his jaw stretching wide before he snaps his teeth together and blinks hard at the glow threading itself into too many directions at once.
That is also unfair. One mysterious light is an invitation, but several mysterious lights are a problem of accounting, and Calan is trying to decide whether the correct answer is to pick the nearest one, the brightest one, or the one that looks most like it does not want to be picked, when his feet begin solving the matter without consulting him. His path drifts sideways by a few inches, then several more, his shoulder tipping toward one of the dark Peephole mouths where the glow has poured itself down like something spilled, and his fingers tighten around Carlo’s hand with the immediate, businesslike grip of someone borrowing balance rather than needing help.
He catches himself a step later and makes the recovery look as intentional as possible, which is to say not very, but also not nothing. One foot skids against the damp earth, his other heel knocks into a root, and he stumbles back into line with a loud, sharp cough that has the useful quality of sounding like it might have been the point all along.
Calan stays on the path!
That is also unfair. One mysterious light is an invitation, but several mysterious lights are a problem of accounting, and Calan is trying to decide whether the correct answer is to pick the nearest one, the brightest one, or the one that looks most like it does not want to be picked, when his feet begin solving the matter without consulting him. His path drifts sideways by a few inches, then several more, his shoulder tipping toward one of the dark Peephole mouths where the glow has poured itself down like something spilled, and his fingers tighten around Carlo’s hand with the immediate, businesslike grip of someone borrowing balance rather than needing help.
He catches himself a step later and makes the recovery look as intentional as possible, which is to say not very, but also not nothing. One foot skids against the damp earth, his other heel knocks into a root, and he stumbles back into line with a loud, sharp cough that has the useful quality of sounding like it might have been the point all along.
Calan stays on the path!
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
