'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan beams at the praise, though he tries very hard to arrange his face into something modest and accomplished rather than delighted. "Oh, it was nothing, really," he says, which might be more convincing if he weren’t grinning so widely. Pushing himself upright, he gives both knees a quick rub before dusting the front of his shorts and sweeping one hand over his shirt as though a proper hero shouldn’t arrive before the gods covered in lighthouse grit.
Once he’s standing, his attention shifts to the shrine itself, and his eyebrows climb. There are so many things. Beautiful things, shiny things, things arranged carefully enough that taking even one would probably be noticed immediately. Calan’s gaze travels over them with open interest while a very practical thought slips into place. They’ve been sent to clean, after all, and places always look cleaner with less clutter. Taking some of it away would technically help, even if it doesn’t seem entirely in the spirit of what they’re supposed to be doing.
"Hmmm." He considers Fern’s question while keeping his hands safely to himself, even though several of the offerings look extremely holdable. "Maybe if it was another god. Ludo likes tricks, and Frey seems like they just let anything happen." Safrin, however, requires more careful thought. Calan wrinkles his nose as he imagines worshippers arriving with flowers and prayers only to be snapped up by hidden machinery. "I don’t think Safrin would like people getting hurt when they came to worship her. Or having their legs caught inbear traps. That would probably make them not want to come back."
Fern’s logic begins sensibly enough, but every new turn wraps around the last until Calan’s forehead creases and his eyes start to narrow from the effort of following it. If Safrin knows that they know that she knows what they might think, then there could be traps or no traps or traps pretending not to be traps, and the whole problem makes his head feel as though someone is stuffing it with wool.
There is only one reliable way to settle it.
Calan tucks his chin, drops his broom beside the wall, and throws himself forward into a barrel roll across the shrine floor. His shoulder bumps the stone first, followed by his back and hips, and he rolls in a crooked line through the middle of the room before flopping onto his side at the end of it. Nothing snaps shut around him, no darts fly from the walls, and the floor remains stubbornly ordinary. He lifts his head and looks back at Fern with his hair sticking up in several directions. "No traps," he announces with great authority. "At least not there."
Once he’s standing, his attention shifts to the shrine itself, and his eyebrows climb. There are so many things. Beautiful things, shiny things, things arranged carefully enough that taking even one would probably be noticed immediately. Calan’s gaze travels over them with open interest while a very practical thought slips into place. They’ve been sent to clean, after all, and places always look cleaner with less clutter. Taking some of it away would technically help, even if it doesn’t seem entirely in the spirit of what they’re supposed to be doing.
"Hmmm." He considers Fern’s question while keeping his hands safely to himself, even though several of the offerings look extremely holdable. "Maybe if it was another god. Ludo likes tricks, and Frey seems like they just let anything happen." Safrin, however, requires more careful thought. Calan wrinkles his nose as he imagines worshippers arriving with flowers and prayers only to be snapped up by hidden machinery. "I don’t think Safrin would like people getting hurt when they came to worship her. Or having their legs caught in
Fern’s logic begins sensibly enough, but every new turn wraps around the last until Calan’s forehead creases and his eyes start to narrow from the effort of following it. If Safrin knows that they know that she knows what they might think, then there could be traps or no traps or traps pretending not to be traps, and the whole problem makes his head feel as though someone is stuffing it with wool.
There is only one reliable way to settle it.
Calan tucks his chin, drops his broom beside the wall, and throws himself forward into a barrel roll across the shrine floor. His shoulder bumps the stone first, followed by his back and hips, and he rolls in a crooked line through the middle of the room before flopping onto his side at the end of it. Nothing snaps shut around him, no darts fly from the walls, and the floor remains stubbornly ordinary. He lifts his head and looks back at Fern with his hair sticking up in several directions. "No traps," he announces with great authority. "At least not there."
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
