'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan has had his sanity questioned enough times that Fern’s declaration barely troubles him. He chuckles under his breath, gives one shoulder a loose little shrug, and pushes himself back to his feet as though flinging his body across a potentially trapped shrine floor is the sort of thing anyone might reasonably do. When she hands over his broom, he accepts both it and the praise with equal satisfaction, though some of that bravery leaks away the moment cleaning becomes unavoidable.
He sighs as he looks around, taking in every delicate object they’ll have to work around. The shrine had seemed far more impressive when it was part of a divine trial. Now it mostly looks like a room designed by someone who has never had to fit a broom beneath anything.
At Fern’s warning, Calan hums and nods with all the seriousness of an expert. "My sister has stuff like this all over her shelves," he tells her, lowering his voice as he glances toward the little mirror. "And if you touch any of it, the spirits get really mad." Whether they get mad because the objects are magical or because his sister shouts loudly enough to sound possessed is a distinction he’s never thought necessary to make.
His eyes slide from the mirror to Fern, then down to his own hands as he considers the two jobs. He’s terrible at cleaning, but he’s probably even worse at standing still while holding something breakable without dropping it, fiddling with it, or deciding it would fit nicely in his pocket. The corner of his mouth twitches as the obvious solution presents itself. "We could rock-paper-scissors for it?" Calan suggests, already shifting his broom beneath one arm and holding out a closed fist between them.
He sighs as he looks around, taking in every delicate object they’ll have to work around. The shrine had seemed far more impressive when it was part of a divine trial. Now it mostly looks like a room designed by someone who has never had to fit a broom beneath anything.
At Fern’s warning, Calan hums and nods with all the seriousness of an expert. "My sister has stuff like this all over her shelves," he tells her, lowering his voice as he glances toward the little mirror. "And if you touch any of it, the spirits get really mad." Whether they get mad because the objects are magical or because his sister shouts loudly enough to sound possessed is a distinction he’s never thought necessary to make.
His eyes slide from the mirror to Fern, then down to his own hands as he considers the two jobs. He’s terrible at cleaning, but he’s probably even worse at standing still while holding something breakable without dropping it, fiddling with it, or deciding it would fit nicely in his pocket. The corner of his mouth twitches as the obvious solution presents itself. "We could rock-paper-scissors for it?" Calan suggests, already shifting his broom beneath one arm and holding out a closed fist between them.
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
