FERN
Jump in the car, get on the road
Travel where nobody knows
No turning back, feet on the dash
Travel where nobody knows
No turning back, feet on the dash
Calan's family has the same quality as a fisherman's tale, she's finding. It gets longer and wilder every time he speaks of it. Coming to the only logical conclusion she has available to her, given he's just drawn a similarity with a god's shrine, Fern's brows lift in the expectation of quiet awe. "Is your sister a god?" This maybe sounds absurd to ask, but since his grandmother who babysits him is a ghost, it really seems like a possibility.
"Hopefully there's no mad spirits here," what with the inevitable touching that's about to happen. As if questioning this new potential risk, Fern's gaze drifts up, running along the ceiling and its arches as though she might find some drifting shimmer of an otherwordly rage just waiting to descend. With no apparent ghoul waiting in the eaves, his very sensible suggestion pulls her attention back at once.
Nodding with all the seriousness that such a game requires, Fern agrees to the best decision-making tool available to them. "Good idea." Tucking her own broom under her arm, Fern holds out one hand, palm-up, and makes a fist with the other overtop it, lining up with his. Her features are drawn into an appropriately grim line, because this fate could decide which of them is forever changed for the worse. "On three," she murmurs, and begins to count, and at three calls out, "rock, paper, scissors, shoot!" Each word causes her fist to thump her palm, until on shoot she reveals her choice.
"Hopefully there's no mad spirits here," what with the inevitable touching that's about to happen. As if questioning this new potential risk, Fern's gaze drifts up, running along the ceiling and its arches as though she might find some drifting shimmer of an otherwordly rage just waiting to descend. With no apparent ghoul waiting in the eaves, his very sensible suggestion pulls her attention back at once.
Nodding with all the seriousness that such a game requires, Fern agrees to the best decision-making tool available to them. "Good idea." Tucking her own broom under her arm, Fern holds out one hand, palm-up, and makes a fist with the other overtop it, lining up with his. Her features are drawn into an appropriately grim line, because this fate could decide which of them is forever changed for the worse. "On three," she murmurs, and begins to count, and at three calls out, "rock, paper, scissors, shoot!" Each word causes her fist to thump her palm, until on shoot she reveals her choice.
Can't pay the tab, sneak out the bar
We skip towns like shooting stars
We're on the run, just living life
We skip towns like shooting stars
We're on the run, just living life
