Irene Didn’t Answer Right Away. Just Stood There With The Wind Needling Past Her Hood And The Storm

Irene didn’t pull back when Shiv gripped her shoulders. She just stood there, watching them with that usual unreadable expression — calm, quiet, like still water. But her fingers twitched at her sides, faintly. The only outward sign of how much it cost her to hear him say it. You have to go live it, Irene.

She didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch between them, long and measured like a tide pulling back before it crashed. The fire behind them crackled low, the stars above them steady, indifferent. The sea whispered to the shore like it knew how to keep secrets.

“You think I can’t keep this place?” Her voice was soft, but steady. Not offended — amused, almost. “Don’t underestimate me like that.” A beat. “I’m not the best weaver, but I’ve learned enough to make this last.”

She turned slightly, gaze sweeping over the water, the dunes, the crooked little house that already felt like it had always been there.

“I want to keep it,” she added, eyes narrowing with purpose. “Because this is the only place you’re not unraveling. The magic’s still working through your system. It’s not going to break overnight. If I drag you out now, you won’t just be half-broken — you’ll be wide open. To everything. Every memory that got scrambled, every spell that touched you, every voice that isn’t yours whispering in your head.”

Her gaze met his again, firm and quiet. Not pleading. Just the truth, delivered without edge.

“So yeah. I’m keeping this running. A little longer. Not forever. Just long enough for things to settle. Let it wear off right.”

She paused, her jaw tight. Shiv had given her an order — clear, methodical, backed by reason and logic and concern for the bigger picture. It was the kind of call she would have not respected from anyone else. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was him. And she couldn’t pretend this wasn’t personal.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, voice lower now. “Trying to give me something to do. A way to step out clean. Get back to the others. Pretend like this was just another assignment.”

Another pause.

“But I can’t. Not yet.”

Her tone didn’t shift, but something softened in her face. A crack in the ice. Not quite a confession — she wasn’t built for those — but something close.

“Thera sent the note. Some people know already. Enough to keep the fire from going out. But if more eyes start turning to us — if someone sees me holding this space, we’ll both be screwed. And Thera... she won’t be safe either.”

She took a step closer. A tiny quirk pulled at the edge of her mouth.

“Can you just trust me?” she asked. “Really. Just… leave this up to me. I promise I won’t mess it up. And if I do, then you can kick my ass.” A shrug. “Or at least try.”

Her gaze held his, steady as ever. “I won’t let you get lost in here. So save your breath. Rest. The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be when it’s time to come back.”

She stepped back, slowly, like she was anchoring them both again in place — not through force, not through spell, but through something stronger. Intent. Presence.

“This works just like the real world. You want dinner? Just think of it. Steak, ramen, oysters on ice, I don’t care — it’ll show up. You want to shower? Swim? You can.”

She turned her head toward the porch where the soft yellow glow still lingered. “There’s a bed in there. Clean sheets. You won’t have to check under the mattress for blades. Water pressure’s good. Books’ll be different every day — I made sure. Want a TV? I can give you that too. Just try not to sleep. You won't feel like you have to, but then if you do, it can complicate things, so let me know. If that need comes up.”

She looked back over her shoulder, expression unreadable again — except maybe in her eyes. A glint of something unspoken. Relief. Fear. Devotion.

“We’ll figure it out. The magic. The who. The why.” Her voice dropped. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing.” She sighed. Riven, why? It wasn't just him, no. That, she'd figure out.

“Let me handle this world. Just this one. Okay?”

Shiv can only nod before closing their eyes and taking it all in. The coolness of the night. The sweet salt in the air as they inhale and exhale. The sweet relief that comes when returning to a home that has been waiting for you. Tranquility unwinds the knots in their muscles, eases their shoulders as Shiv relaxes. Its more than good or comfortable, this is heavenly.

Yet, as much as Shiv would like to completely unwind, they know that this is not their memory to look fondly back on. They are a guest in Irene's nostalgia. Eventually Shiv will have to return to the desert, the ruins of their mind and repair what's left for themself.

Irene can't stay here. She has to let them go.

"No. Unfortunately not. I was working in one of the back offices. The file room. Then someone called my name. That's it...Everything afterward is just static." Shiv sighs. They have no memory of the attack or the attacker. Or rather, attackers. "More than one witch", they repeat to themself, "We can work with that. Later."

"Now is not the time to start pointing fingers. Yama is patient; justice can wait." As much as loss, rage simmers beneath the skin of their tatted back, the last thing Shiv wants is for Irene to throw herself into danger for their sake. More than she already has trying to save Shiv from their own mind.

They take a step forward and plants both hands on Irene's shoulders. The hesitation is clear as day in Shiv's eyes, Shiv's voice as they speak with a heavy heart, "Thank you for everything. But we both know you can't stay here or maintain the beach forever. Your life is outside of this dream. You have to go live it, Irene."

Shiv stops themself. That sounded more like a final goodbye than they meant. This isn't a goodbye. This is Shiv giving Irene an order. "When you wake up, go back to the others and tell them what let happened-- Well, not everything that happened obviously. Mainly that I am stabilized and in safe hands. I'm sure Sammy is running around already; he's gonna need some help keeping everyone else's heads on their shoulders." Shiv stops themself once more. This time with a flicker of recognition in their eye that gives them pause. Its then that Shiv remembers them.

Sammy. Aurelia. Nico. Adrian. Gabriel. Gemma-

Just a handful of the hunters that are depending on them. A handful of hunters that, like Irene, are probably scrambling in their absence. An ugly truth comes to light, one they've been trying to undermine and deny even before the coma: Unfortunately, Shiv is important. Not in a way that is self serving or even speaks to their skillset but goes beyond hunting. A babysitter. A voice of reason. A helping hand. A mentor. A father figure? These roles can't be easily replaced or forgotten.

Shiv can't let their own mind swallow them whole; Shiv can't die here. Their Brotherhood needs them.

"Standard protocol. Two weeks." Shiv takes a deep breath and recomposes themself, back straightened and seemingly standing with a new vigor. "Give me two weeks in waking time to situate my mind. If I am not operational by then, you have full permission to yank me out by whatever means necessary. But my hunt is here. I must to finish it."

"Look. I have no clue how any of this magic works. But you do. That's what makes your skillset unique, part of what makes you a one of a kind hunter." Embrace it. Shiv gives Irene a quiet, reassuring smile. Their hands move from Irene's shoulders to her arms, bracing themself as if the two are about to make endure another hurricane. Irene is not going to like this. "When you go and this beach dissipates, give me no warning. Just rip if off like a band aid. Fast and simple."

"I'll be okay, alright? I'll be okay and I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

WHO: @therawend WHERE: thera's house

The tower loomed taller than she thought.

Worn brick stacked like the silence she’d carried since Sammy had shown her the letter — hands tight around the edges, voice low like he wasn’t sure how to say it out loud. She has Shiv. That part was clear. The rest? Not so much.

She’d read Thera’s handwriting three times over, each loop and slash more frustrating than the last. Thera. Thera, of all people. Irene hadn’t known they were connected —Shiv and her—but the letter didn’t lie. And Sammy wouldn’t have brought it to her if it wasn’t serious.

She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, tucked the paper before handing it back, and left before the weight of it could settle. Maybe she should’ve been more surprised. But confusion only went so far when Shiv was in danger. Shiv was never in danger, how could this be?

Irene knew where to go.

The walk from the bus stop had been long. Her legs were tired, her thoughts louder than usual. But she didn’t slow down, not even when the trees grew dense and the shadows pooled a little heavier. The path to Thera’s was always quiet in that strange, in-between kind of way —too calm, too out of time. Like the world didn’t quite reach here. It was probably safer that way.

By the time she reached the front door, she looked like hell. Pale and drawn, magic twitching raw just under her skin from days without rest. Her hair was still braided from work but messy now, a few pins lost along the walk. In her hands, nothing but her necklace, the charm she always held when grounding herself, when reaching into dreams.

She didn’t knock. Just let her fingers graze the worn doorframe before she pushed it open.

“Thera?” Her voice was low, not quite sure if it belonged here yet. “Sammy told me.”

A pause. She glanced inside, half-expecting the air to be thick with incense or stitched spells or whatever strange magic always clung to this place like dust.

“I thought… maybe you could use help.” Her tone stayed flat, guarded, but her eyes said something else. Something quieter.

And she meant it. Even if her hands shook. They were going to be alright, right?

Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

More clothing. Definitely.

Not because she's trying to hide anything dramatic — She just doesn’t like the attention. Irene has never been the kind of person who walks into a room and wants eyes on her. Less clothing… that invites stares, comments, and assumptions. She has had enough of that to last a lifetime.

She feels safer when covered. More in control. Like there’s a layer between her, her weapons and everything else. It’s not about shame — it’s about comfort. About not being seen unless she chooses to be.

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

( jessica alexander / female / she/her) — IRENE CLERMONT has been living in Port Leiry for 6 MONTHS. They currently work as a SHOP ASSISTANT AT TUMATARAU APOTHECARY , and are 26 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH/HUNTER or if they’re connected to THE BROTHERHOOD. They tend to be quite VINDICTIVE and SECRETIVE, but can also be RESILIENT and COMPASIONATE.

Connections / Pinterest

Name: Irene Clermont Occupation: Apothecary Assistant & Brotherhood Hunter Age & Birthday: Twenty-Six | August 15, 1999 Sexuality: Straight Species: Witch (Mirrormind, aspiring Weaver) - Currently a Hunter Hometown: Columbus, Ohio Relationship Status: Single Personality Traits: Irene is calculating, quietly intense, emotionally closed off but not cold. She’s fiercely loyal to the few she trusts, slow-burning in her grief and rage. Tactical, self-disciplined, and emotionally guarded, she is a survivor before anything else—but her anger runs deep.

TW: Torture / Death / Mental Illness / Exile

"They called her dangerous. And they were right."

Born into the Circle of the Reverie —an insular coven of prophecy, dreams, and memory— Irene was always the wrong kind of magic. A child cloaked in quiet, feared for the way her eyes lingered too long, for the way her presence stirred old feelings. They whispered about her blood. About how her mother had lied. About how no one knew who her father was.

But Irene did.

She found out as a teenager: her father wasn’t some mystery, but a hunter —skilled, tactical, and very much alive. She met him in secret under moonlight and ash, learning to fight with her hands and her heart. He didn’t ask her to shrink. He made her sharp. Loved. Seen. And when her magic began to twist—when she realized she could pull best or worst memories to the surface and make others live them again—he was the only one who wasn’t afraid.

But the Circle was. And fear makes monsters of the devout.

The truth came out. And then everything burned. Her father’s location was leaked. Another coven took him—tortured him—killed him. Her mother, complicit in the secrecy, was punished until her mind broke open. Irene found her father’s body cold. Her mother no longer knew her name.

Then came exile.

Six months ago, Irene arrived in Port Leiry, drifting quiet beneath its fog-covered skyline. She tends an apothecary now—mixing poultices for strangers and tucking herbs into brown paper while her mother stares at walls she doesn’t understand. But at night, Irene hunts. Not for coin. Not for chaos. She hunts the witches who destroyed her family—one by one. The ones who killed her father. The ones who made her mother scream. The ones who stood back and smiled at their pain.

Her magic is unstable—raw, frayed by grief and sharpened by rage. As a Mirrormind, Irene crafts illusions in the waking world—twisting what others see, what they believe, what they feel. She can cloak herself in beauty or fear, turn hallways into labyrinths, or smiles into threats. It’s misdirection at its most intimate, seduction, deception, and control laced into a glance.

But Irene is more than that. She was born different—something the Circle feared from the beginning.

She can do what most Mirrorminds cannot: not just create illusions, but resurrect emotion itself. With a touch or focused gaze, she can pull someone's strongest memory to the surface —grief, joy, terror—and force them to relive it in unbearable clarity. The scent, the sound, the pain of it. As real as the first time. She doesn’t just show you your past—she makes you drown in it. It’s a rare, unspoken branch of Mirrormind magic that even the most devout fear to name.

Now, Irene trains as a Weaver —learning to slip into the minds of her enemies in sleep. To plant nightmares that linger like bruises. To stitch fear into their rest. Weavers are artisans of the subconscious—quiet, slow-burning retribution —and Irene wants that precision. That patience. To haunt before she harms.

Her magic is unstable—frayed at the edges, easily overwhelmed by emotion. The deeper Irene feels, the harder it is to control. Grief tangles the threads. Anger burns through illusion. And when she loses control, her powers lash out in unpredictable bursts—sometimes triggering someone else’s worst memory without meaning to, sometimes trapping her in a vision that isn’t hers. That’s why she’s learning to become a Weaver: not just for the power, but for the discipline. Weaving requires patience, precision, detachment—all the things she’s had ripped away. If she can master that control, she can make her pain purposeful. Turn the chaos into something quiet. Deadly. Lasting.

Because revenge isn’t just a blade. Sometimes it’s a dream you can’t wake from.

She doesn’t fight loud. She fights smart. And she fights only those who deserve it.

Once, she was just a child. Curious. Kind. Too soft for the world she was born into.

Irene doesn’t make noise. She makes consequences.

More:

She barely sleeps. Between taking care of her mother, Brotherhood work, and pushing herself to control her magic, Irene exists in a state of constant exhaustion. Nighttime is for training. She runs drills in silence, practices weaving on scraps of cloth and empty walls, trying to thread dreams into something she can hold. She doesn’t rest until her body forces her to.

Her mother’s sleep matters more than her own. Irene’s primary motivation for becoming a Weaver isn’t power—it’s mercy. Her mother, fractured and fading, is haunted by memories the Circle forced into her. Irene believes if she can learn to weave well enough, she can soothe her mother’s dreams, give her a few hours of peace. She hasn’t succeeded yet, and every failure feels like a personal betrayal.

She avoids mirrors. Her Mirrormind magic has backfired before—turning a glance into someone else’s memory, or her reflection into a moment from her own past. When she’s overwhelmed, reflections can feel like traps.

She used to laugh all the time. When she was younger, when Riven was around, Irene was a bright, warm presence—curious, clingy, always offering the last bite of her treat. She was the kind of child who believed in promises and tried to keep them all. Sometimes, when she sees him again, that ache creeps in—of who she could’ve been if things had gone differently.

Her most precious possession is a silver-edged knife. Slender, balanced, and etched with quiet runes, it was the last thing her father ever gave her. He said it was forged from hunter’s steel and carried through generations. She wears it at her thigh like a second spine. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a vow, a memory, a tether to the person who believed in her first.

She keeps a small box of things that don’t belong to her. A child’s drawing. A coin from the Brotherhood’s first offering. A feather she once pulled from her father’s coat. None of it is magical, but she treats it like it is. These are her anchors when her magic spirals, her grief surges, or she forgets what softness feels like.

She’s cast a cloaking spell over her magic—layered, meticulous, and laced with intent so fine it hums beneath her skin. It took weeks to perfect, built from forgotten sigils and quiet hours hunched over worn parchment, every line a thread in the weave of her protection. The Brotherhood doesn't tolerate strangeness it can't control, and Irene knows too well what happens to witches who shimmer too brightly. So she dims herself carefully. No flare, no scent of power, nothing for the gifted or monstrous to catch hold of. It’s not just concealment—it’s survival. A hidden pulse beneath her heartbeat. She checks it constantly, reinforces it like a cracked wall. Even when she’s alone, she whispers its binding words. Just in case.

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she just watched her—this slip of a person who moved like sunlight had stitched itself into her seams, even soaked and barefoot in the middle of the storm. Irene’s mouth twitched again, that not-quite-smile hanging on like it was waiting for permission.

“I’m not chasing anything,” she said, voice low and even. “I’m just walking.”

The rain had picked up, steady now, but she didn’t move to shield herself. Just let it bead and roll off her coat like she’d forgotten it was supposed to bother her. Maybe she had.

She glanced at Allie’s bare feet and added, “You’re gonna catch something worse than a broken neck out here, though. There’s mud in the drains and runoff like soup.”

A pause.

“But you look happy.” Not a question, not quite an observation —just a simple fact, dropped between them with no particular weight. Like Irene had noticed and decided it was worth naming. She shifted her stance, hands still buried deep in her coat. “Can’t decide if it’s comforting or dangerous.”

Her gaze flicked up to the sky —not the clouds, not the wind, but something behind both. Whatever it was, it wasn’t close yet. But it would be. “I’m not the kind who runs from storms,” she added, more to the sky than to Allie. “But I don’t usually dance in ‘em either.” Finally, her attention dropped back to Allie. Something in her expression had softened —barely, but there. Like moss on stone.

“...Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

         she feels the witch before she sees her, in between some jump and twirl when she catches a warm familiarity in the breeze. the wind’s growing sharper, and she’s not if it’s from the storm, or if it’s stemming from the magic that’s coming just a whisper closer. allie’s reaching for her before she realizes, welcoming her in before allie finds irene’s name written on the signature. allie perks up towards the sound of another voice, eyes bright and searching, her voice even brighter against the rain.  “ break my neck? ”  there’s a lot of things you can break while dancing, but she’d never thought about her neck. allie’s never been careful, but she doesn’t think she could manage that. clumsy, and delighted, she recognizes the voice as a friend. “ oh, irene! you’re here! ”

         with her shoes in her hand, allie nearly skips forward to greet her. even rain-soaked, there’s a warm excitement that blooms inside her. it might’ve been cold, but that didn’t matter nearly as much. besides, the sun was still peeking through, just a little bit. even if a storm was brewing, something big enough to scare her away, she could still enjoy the last glimpses of sunlight.

         “ oh my gosh, are you kidding? i love the rain! ”  her hands fasten, earnestly, behind her back as she rocks forward. with wide, curious eyes, she watches irene.  “ what else would i be chasing? oh, are you a rain chaser? ”  she hadn’t thought so, but she always sorta’ thinks irene’s chasing something. maybe not the rain, but something.

The wind had teeth out here.

Irene hadn’t meant to come this far. She’d walked until the roads narrowed and the town thinned behind her, until her ears were full of the sea’s growl and the storm’s hush. Her boots stuck twice on the walk down to the rental lot, the mud soft and mean beneath the heels. She could feel her wards straining —distant, but tethered still—and every bone in her body whispered that she should turn back.

She didn’t.

The dock looked abandoned, lights off, boats lashed in neat crisscrossed lines like some ritual offering to the waves. Practical. Smart. Not enough to keep anything truly safe. She didn’t expect to see anyone, let alone the figure mid-run at the edge of the dock.

Irene stopped short just as the woman jumped.

Not slipped. Not fell. Jumped. Clean. Deliberate.

It was the sort of motion that knew gravity’s rules and simply chose not to care. The sort of leap that wasn’t meant for onlookers. So when the woman surfaced—sleek, sharp-eyed, at home in a way that made Irene’s skin feel too tight—she held her gaze, because looking away felt wrong. Unkind, even.

“You know,” Irene said, once the silence had grown long enough to deserve words, “Most people call it a day when the storm starts naming things.”

Her voice didn’t carry well over the wind, but she didn’t raise it either. Just enough for the other woman to hear, if she wanted to. Just enough to be real.

She didn’t ask what she was. Didn’t need to. There were some things you didn’t poke with language.

Instead, Irene’s hand found the railing, fingers brushing over the salt-slick wood.

“I won’t stay,” she added. “Didn’t come to interrupt.”

But she hadn’t moved yet, either. The kind of stillness that came from knowing you weren’t the only one who’d come out here to remember something you couldn’t name. Or forget something you couldn’t shake.

Let the sea judge them both.

Who: Open (0/4)

Where: PL Boat Rental

If the wind were still able to fill her lungs, Ha-Jeong knew that it would taste like magic. She knew storms, had sailed in more typhoons than she could count, and this was no natural storm. But she found that she cared little for its origin. She was reminded of her centuries at sea. How she had volunteered herself for solo deck duty in almost every storm the ship had seen. It had been a selfish move as much as it had been a logical one. Her body could simply withstand more than her human crewmates, but she had also loved the feeling of being swept up in something so much bigger than herself.

She sat on her dock, the humans she usually employed to run the place summarily dismissed and sent to safer pastures. She had gone around on her own and spider tied all vessels that hadn’t been stored on racks or in the 3 operating boat houses. The dock rocked beneath her, undulating with the sea.

Ha-Jeong stood and started to remove her jacket. The other haenyeo used to call her ‘ineo’ when she had spent her decade on Jeju. That was perhaps her favourite way she had spent the 90s. She cocked her head from side to side as she took a starting position. If she was honest with herself those ladies hadn’t been the only people to accuse her of having a more aquatic than human nature. Ironic for this was perhaps the one human idiosyncrasy she had left, as she ran towards the edge of the dock, wind running through her hair, she was reminded of a little girl centuries ago who would have done the same.

As she flew over the water, the tumultuous storm current sipping around her body, she felt a presence appear behind her on the dock. As the water welcomed her, an embrace no colder than her own, she quickly broke through the surface to meet the eyes of someone who was either just brave or just stupid enough to witness her in her human indulgence.

The stool was cold under her hands — she hadn’t meant to sit. Not at first. Just to scan the crowd, just to look. But Obsidian was louder than she remembered. Busier. Full of laughter and clinking glasses and that polished kind of nightlife charm that never quite felt like it belonged to her. Irene sat anyway, still damp from the outside, her coat unbuttoned just enough to breathe.

No Jaya.

She didn’t frown, but her eyes moved with more purpose than most of the crowd’s. Quick flicks between faces, corners, doorways. She didn’t expect him to be easy to find — not with what was happening. But she’d hoped. That was the whole problem.

She rested her elbow on the bar like she had every right to be here. No different from the others. Just a woman looking for a drink, maybe company. No one needed to know what stirred underneath. What she was actually here for. The charm around her neck sat heavy beneath her shirt — hidden, quiet. Like her.

When the bartender approached — bright smile, easy confidence — Irene straightened slightly. The recognition didn’t show on her face, but her mind caught on the name. Charlotte. One of Jaya’s. She’d seen her in passing once or twice, never close enough to speak. The smile was genuine. Irene offered a smaller one in return — polite, a little tired at the edges.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft but steady, leaning in just enough for the words to cut through the ambient buzz of the room. “Actually, I’m— looking for someone.”

A pause. Measured.

“Jaya. He around?”

She didn’t let too much hope show in the question, just enough to make it casual. She kept her hands on the bar, fingers wrapped around the base of a coaster, grounding herself in something physical. Something normal.

“I can wait,” she added quickly, before Charlotte could say yes or no. “It’s not urgent.”

Another pause. The music shifted behind them — deeper bass, slower rhythm.

Her eyes flicked sideways — toward the crowd, then back.

“I’ll take whatever’s easiest in the meantime. Just— something simple.”

There was no point in drawing attention. Not now. Not here.

She could pretend to be patient. For a little while longer.

Where: Obsidian

Who: Open (1/5)

Tonight had been bustling. It was the most crowded Charlotte had seen the place and Charlotte couldn’t be happier. Jaya deserved for this place to be a success and between her and Gemma Obsidian was thriving under the new leadership.

As Charlotte was shaking a martini for a very well dressed witch on the edge of the bar, she finally noticed the time. Shit, she was overdue for a break. She had lost track of time in the crush of customers that had rolled in. As she placed the martini in front of the witch, a new customer caught her eye as they sat on a stool at the end of the bar. One more customer, she promised herself, and then she would go take her break.

She turned a beaming smile on the newcomer and nodded at them, ready to take their order.

Irene hadn’t meant to be out this early, let alone in this weather, but something in her had pulled her into the downpour anyway. Maybe it was the pressure in the air, that humming, bone-deep ache that came when storms gathered their skirts and began to spin. Or maybe it was just that sleep hadn’t stuck the way it should, and the silence inside had grown too loud to bear.

She wasn’t dancing. Not really. But she also wasn’t not moving—hands tucked into her coat, hood drawn low, boots soundless on the wet pavement. There was a rhythm to the rain that pulled at her limbs, loosened something usually kept tight. She walked like someone thinking too hard about nothing at all.

And then—motion. A blur of color. A voice, sharp in its brightness.

Irene stopped a few paces away, rainwater trailing slow down her jaw, catching in the curve of her collar. She blinked once, then again, like she wasn’t entirely convinced the figure in front of her was real. And then her mouth quirked—barely—but enough to register.

“You’re gonna break your neck dancing like that.” It wasn’t scolding. It wasn’t teasing either. Just dry, and maybe a little impressed.

Her eyes flicked across the slick street, then back to Allie, still beaming through the storm like it hadn’t dared touch her. Typical. “Didn’t peg you for a rain chaser,” Irene added, quieter this time. “Guess I was wrong.”

She didn’t move to leave. Not yet. The sky hadn’t cracked open wide enough for that.

who: open to anyone wandering about ! ♡ where: Outside . / when: (Very) Early Day One, Hurricane Jac .

         she’d been hoping for rain, hadn’t she? and maybe she always is, but sometimes, it’s different than a want, and closer to a need. like the earth when it thirsts for growth, or a girl that wants to forget, and be washed clean, and forgiven. sometimes, she just needs to grow a little greener, too. and she’s not storm chasing, exactly. when she was younger, she’d tremble right along with the thunder. now, she’s outgrown that, and the talk of a hurricane feels like a distant nightmare that it’d be silly to fear. now, there’s only rain, and her walking takes on an air of wandering soon enough, and then she’s dancing right along with the song the sound of droplets make, the soft call of wind.

         the pavement grows slick under her feet, and in between a twirl and some kind of stumble, she slips. it’s only a moment, a soft breeze that draws an even softer squeal from her, but it does snap her attention away from only whimsy. through the rain, she thinks she can spot another person. like this, the water becomes a mirage, and she thinks they might be dancing too. or maybe it’s just the rain. either way, allie calls out to them with a beaming smile.  “ oh, sorry, i didn’t see you there! ”

Sage shifts against her with a soft chitter, tiny paws patting at the edge of her collar like she might burrow inside it if given the option. Irene lets her. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just rests her cheek against the top of the little raccoon’s head for a moment, eyes slipping closed like that warmth is enough to trick her into stillness, a moment that barely lasted, before her attention was back to Shiv again.

Irene didn’t look at Juniper right away. Her gaze stayed somewhere near Shiv’s collarbone, the place where breath kept rising and falling slow beneath her palm — proof enough that the thread still held. That what she was doing mattered.

Juniper’s words weren’t wrong. She knew that. Knew it in the way her own body dragged with every movement, like it had forgotten the shape of rest. The way food felt more like obligation than comfort, and how even the water she sipped tasted like ash sometimes, because it never touched the kind of thirst she really had.

But it was Shiv.

That was the beginning and the end of it.

She curled her fingers a little tighter around his, still careful, still there. And after a long breath that she let filter through her teeth, she leaned back just enough that the spell could stretch with her — pliant, practiced, held steady with a flick of her wrist. Sage shifted with her, head tucked beneath her chin now, breath warm against her throat.

“I know,” Irene said finally. Her voice was low. Not defensive. Not even distant. Just worn at the edges, the way soft things got after enough time spent exposed. “You’re not wrong. You’re not annoying.”

A small pause.

“Thank you,” she added, and meant it — even if she couldn’t quite put the weight of it into her tone. She looked over then, meeting Juniper’s gaze for the first time in a while.

She didn’t say she was grateful for the food — she hadn’t touched it yet. Probably wouldn’t, not until the spell settled and the ache in her stomach turned from fog to signal. But the plate stayed within reach, and that was enough for now.

“I know I’m running close to the line,” she admitted, thumb brushing lightly along Shiv’s knuckles, grounding. “But I can’t not be here. Not for him. He’d do the same. Has done the same, even when I didn’t ask.”

There was no wobble in the words. No heroics either. Just fact. The kind of bond that had been carved quietly over time, sealed in things unsaid.

She was quiet for a beat, then her mouth tilted just slightly — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“You can ask,” she said, a little drier now. “You’ve wanted to, haven’t you? Why I’m here. Why I’m sitting in the middle of this, pretending not to be something I am.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. Neither did her grip on Shiv.

There was a smile as Irene lifted Sage up into her lap. Noting the barely there shift in Irene's posture. Juniper was lucky to have Sage. She was rather in tune with people, and had a knack for knowing when someone needed something warm and fluffy to hold onto. Only causing a little trouble as she played gently with Irene's hair and reached out for the hunter from time to time. 

“Yeah, well someone has to make sure you two are eating. Magic burns more calories than people would think.” This is why she usually got larger portions for lunch. That way if she didn’t finish it all Irene still had plenty to take home. It wasn’t really her job, but she had seen this kind of thing before. Too many times in her past had Juniper skipped a meal because she was too focused on something else. Or simply just skipped a meal. Not a good habit. And not a habit she was keen to see repeated by Irene. 

She nods when Irene says she is managing. It’s a strained answer. She believes her. Irene very much is managing, 24/7, she never seems to stop managing. Her plate is always full, between work, hunter business, witch business, and still finding the time to spend hours here everyday, working some intricate spellcraft from what Juniper has seen. Dream magic is nothing to scoff at. 

“I have no doubt he is doing fine. He has some very competent witches taking care of him.” She makes the statement pointed. “Thera is handling the brunt of the physical care. But you are handling the mental load. That’s not nothing.” She leans back in her chair, letting her legs stretch out in front of her as she slouches with a sigh. “Honestly it’s exhausting just watching.”

Reaching into her own lunch bag she grabs a handful of fries. Picking at those one by one so she doesn’t have to sit up yet. Shrugging a shoulder. “I'm the same as usual. Not enough hours in the day but we still go on. I’m thoroughly relieved to have construction going now. The entire floor got wrecked by the flooding, so today they are ripping everything up so we can look at the foundation. Interesting stuff. I know.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. 

She didn’t speak again for a while. Watching Irene and the way she interacted with the hunter. Using fries to swallow down the sour taste in her mouth. Juniper was no stranger to the complicated nature of hunter/witch association. It was a strange dance. Witches supplying humans with just enough magic to be a threat. Working side by side and only hunters really seemed to get the benefit of the bargain. She wondered what Irene got out of pretending to be one of them. 

“I’m going to be annoying for a moment, but you really can’t run on empty Irene, at least not without exorbitant amounts of adrenaline. If you keep up this pace you are going to burn out.” She didn’t look at Irene, she didn’t want this to seem like a lecture. It wasn’t a lecture. It was Juniper expressing reasonable concern for a fellow witch. This was the conversation that happens before lecturing.