Irene Didn’t Answer Right Away. Didn’t Rise To It, Didn’t Blink. Just Stood There In The Hum Of

There was a flicker in her expression —not quite surprise, not quite protest. Just something that passed through and didn’t linger. Her gaze dropped to the canvas bag like she’d forgotten it was even there.

“You don’t have to do all that,” she muttered, toeing it a little closer with the side of her boot. “I wasn’t angling for a tune-up.”

Still, she didn’t say no.

The bag gave a dull clink as she set it on the table. Inside; a cloth-wrapped bundle of throwing knives, a small pouch of dried sigil chalks, a pair of worn leather wraps that smelled faintly of smoke, and—carefully tucked in a separate sheath, her father’s knife. The grip was dark with age, the edge clean but dulled from use. Nothing flashy. Nothing ornamental. Just the kind of tools you carried because you had to, not because they made you look the part. Tools that had seen too much and kept quiet about it.

She picked up the blade, turned it once in her hand before setting it down for him to see. “It’s not in the worst shape,” she said. “But it’s not great either.”

Then, silence again. Long enough to leave space, short enough not to close the door. She leaned back on her heels, arms folding loosely. Eyes steady on Shiv now, but unreadable.

“I don’t like saying things out loud,” she said, eventually. “Feels like naming them makes them real.”

A pause.

“But the apartment’s too quiet. And the shop smells like the past. And I don’t know if I’m just tired, or if I’ve been tired so long it started to feel normal.”

She blinked once, then looked away, pretending to study the laundry machine like it might offer an answer. “So yeah. I figured training. At least it’s motion.”

Another beat.

“I wasn’t really expecting company,” she said, a little softer this time. “But I’m not about to turn it down.” And in its own strange, backward way — that was thanks.

“If that's the case, the washer's all yours.” Though her suggestion may be a lie, the invitation rings true. The laundry machines will still be there, no matter if Irene decides to use them now or later.

Yet there seems to be something else on her mind besides laundry or training. It’s just a matter of chipping away at that cold, distant exterior.

Shiv meets Irene’s glance with a shrug. “Sure. I'm free to join. Or accompany. Or make noise.” Three very different tasks depending on what exactly Irene is trying to accomplish. “Training is all well and good, but there’s probably better ways to fill the quiet. At some point, routine just becomes part of the humdrum, right? Just more quiet on top of quiet. Can't have that... Here.”

Shiv leans forward with one hand planted on their desk as the other points to her small discarded canvas bag. “What kind of training gear have you been carrying around all night? I can bet whatever it is will be in need of some deep cleaning or sharpening. Including that blade of yours.”

That blade being the silver-edged knife on her thigh, of course. How could Shiv not see it? The antique of a weapon sticks out of her outfit like a sore thumb.

"C'mon", Shiv clears their table and reaches into their drawer for the cleaning supplies they had immediately on hand. "Let me run a quick maintenance check. On the house. Just start filling the silence and say what's actually on your mind."

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

On an average day, Irene’s pockets are a quiet reflection of who she is — practical, private, and always prepared.

She usually carries her keys, looped with a spare hair tie — always black, always stretched a little too thin from use. There’s almost always a crumpled receipt or two she’s forgotten to throw out, tucked next to a folded grocery list or a sticky note with something half-crossed out.

Wired headphones are a constant — no earbuds or Bluetooth nonsense. She likes the certainty of something that won’t disconnect without warning.

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.

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?

Irene didn’t roll her eyes — she didn’t give him the satisfaction. That would’ve meant his noise reached her, that his cocktail of smirks and blood-jokes managed to press somewhere beneath her skin. Instead, she let the silence stretch thin and humming, like piano wire drawn taut between them. One sharp note away from slicing skin.

She watched the wobbling cartridge settle, its nose pointing square at her sternum like a dare, and didn’t blink. Let it rest there. Let him imagine it made a difference.

“Cute trick,” she said at last, dry as old paper. “Shame it only works on people who don’t know how many times you’ve missed.”

She took the cartridge off the counter without looking at it, let it spin once on her fingertip before palming it, smooth and precise. That old dancer’s grace — all economy and control, every movement a message. I could ruin you and never lift my voice doing it.

“You mistake the shape of silence for strain,” she continued, her tone dipping low, precise. “Just because I don’t break the glass doesn’t mean I don’t know how. You think I’m one bad day from snapping?” She leaned forward a fraction, voice softening — not sweet, but sharp enough to cut clean. “I’ve been one bad day for other people. More than once. Don’t mistake composure for mercy.”

Then, just to underline it, she smiled. Small. Clinical. The kind of expression you might see on someone flipping through morgue tags.

Her gaze ticked down to the smeared inventory sheet, still smudged with whatever grease-stain bravado passed for his signature.

“You know,” she mused, brushing the corner of the page lightly, “If I wanted a toddler with impulse control issues, I’d raid the daycare wing of the Order’s training program. At least they shit their pants less when they get scared.”

She let the sentence hang there for a beat, sweetened with just enough venom to sting.

“But you—” she gestured vaguely to him, his posture, the chair, the grin stitched into his face like a bad scar — “You’re still chasing your own echo, pretending it’s a monster. Is that what this is now? Playing boogeyman to get someone to look at you? You gonna spook some street witches next? Kick over a hex circle and call it a win?”

Then she straightened — not defensive, not retreating, just done indulging. Jacket cuffs tugged sharp. Voice flat again, bored around the edges.

“You want to hunt together?” she echoed. “Tell me what’s in it for me.”

A pause.

“Besides the obvious disappointment, I mean.”

And then, like a knife slipped between ribs on an inhale, soft, while leaning slightly closer. “Or are you still calling it a hunt when the targets don’t shoot back?”

Nico rolls the lollipop stem against his molars, splits it down the grain with a wet crack, then flicks the splinter into the trashcan like a gauntlet. Irene’s voice is still humming in the air—clean, judicial, taste-tested—so he folds his arms behind his head, tips back on the stool, and yawns. Wide. The kind of yawn that shows spite and maybe the ghost of last night’s whiskey. Lets it hang there, jaw unhinged, until the lights buzz louder than she does.

“God,” he sighs from his necklace into the ceiling, “Irene, they should bottle you and sell you to insomniacs.”

The stool claps down on all four legs. He leans over the counter, elbows wide, grin gone lazy. “Look, I get it. You’re the sharp scalpel, I’m the rusty hacksaw. You do neat incisions, I swing ’til bone dust fogs the room. It’s cute you think the surgeons always walk out cleaner.” He drums a fingertip on the cartridge she’s taken. “Metal’s metal either way. Same death inside.”

His gaze skates to the inventory sheet lying untouched between them, a neat grid of typewritten calibers and order codes. He drags a dirty thumbnail across the column of quantities, leaving a smear that obliterates three numbers. “Oops,” he signs. “There goes the paperwork. Guess legal’s gonna have to clear that, too.”

She’s still statuesque, frost-marble perfect. He studies her stillness—how it strains at the edges like a violin string tuned a half-step too high. “You do haunt, sweetheart,” he says. “Not with ghosts, but with everything you’re holding back. Makes a man wonder what color the spill would be if someone poked the dam.”

His hand snakes under the counter, comes up with another cartridge—this one dull brass, dented near the rim. He balances it on its base, spins it, lets it wobble to a stop pointing at her heart. “Tell you what.” The cartridge disappears again, swallowed by a fist. “You keep pretending my fail-state is predictable, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not one spark away from shattering. Symbiosis, right? Brotherhood loves that word.” He winks, mock conspiratorial. Then the grin sharpens, shark-fin breaking water. “You asked what I’m hunting? Today—splitting headaches shaped like your voice. Tomorrow? Whatever bleeds the loudest. Maybe we tag-team it. First time for everything, yeah?”

Nico tips his head, regarding the lollipop cut blooming red on his cheek. A slow swipe of his tongue—copper, sugar, grin.

"What say you? Want to hunt together?"

Irene raised an eyebrow, faint but visible. She slid the ledger a little off to the side and reached for the kettle tucked behind the counter. “The Dubai?” she asked, glancing up just long enough to meet his eyes. “Like —skyline, sand, too much glass and not enough shade?”

The water hissed softly as it hit the mug, steam curling into the space between them.

“Can’t imagine why anyone would trade that for Port Leiry,” she added, quieter now, more to the mug than to him. “Unless you lost a bet. Or pissed off the wrong kind of person.”

She didn’t press. Everyone here had a reason, and most didn’t come up in polite conversation. Still, she turned slightly to pull a tin from one of the wall shelves—something floral, mellow, just enough bite to keep a conversation upright.

The shop filled with the faint scent of chamomile and dried apple peel.

“Irene,” she offered, setting the mug down on the counter between them. “I help keep this place from falling over when it rains.”

A pause. She leaned on the counter now, one hand still wrapped around the cooling kettle.

“If you’re taking over Obsidian, you’ll want to meet the people who trade here after dark,” she said. “Half your ingredients won’t come through daylight doors.” A faint shrug. “Some of your patrons either.”

Then, after a beat —so casual it almost passed unnoticed—“You ever bartend before? Or just dive straight into ownership?”

Jaya cocked his head at the list connecting each of the herbs to the sort of drinks they’d go in. He’d not heard of nightmouth. That had to be a personal nickname of the apothecary owner for some sort of flower that was edible or usable in cocktails, maybe dried hibiscus? He really needed to google how to make these sorts of things, if he was going to run this place properly...

The offer to actually make tea gave him pause. To his own surprise, he didn’t immediately deny it. “I’d like that, thank you.”

The lounge was dimly-lit and sparsely populated enough to be a quiet place that he could drink and could keep himself from being alone without getting overwhelmed with a too-noisy bar, but it didn’t have any familiarity. The alchemist’s shop felt too close to home for him to be comfortable, but he didn’t want to leave it too soon. “If it’s not a bother. I’m Jaya, I just moved here from Dubai.”

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

Irene didn’t flinch when Allie touched her — not really — but there was the faintest shift in her posture, the smallest roll of her shoulders like some old, instinctual tension had stirred from its sleep. Still, she let her take her hand. Let her tuck the flower behind her ear like it was nothing. Like it didn’t burn with the strange warmth of being chosen.

“Matching, huh?” Irene’s voice was quieter now, almost rough with the effort of keeping something leveled out beneath it. “Dangerous thing to do with someone like me.”

But she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t know what it was about Allie — the way she moved through the world like it hadn’t taught her to flinch yet, or maybe like she’d learned to laugh through the ache anyway. Irene remembered that feeling. Not well, but well enough to recognize the ghost of it. Back when her magic still had wonder in it. Before it twisted under the weight of what she’d had to make it do.

Allie’s magic pulsed gentle — alive and bright like sun-warmed petals and laughter too early in the morning. Irene’s had teeth. It could peel the paint off reality if she let it. No comparison, really. No overlap. But it was impossible not to wonder, just for a second, what it might have felt like to be the kind of girl who danced instead of watched.

What it might’ve meant to laugh with her, instead of being the one standing in the storm with a pocket full of warnings and a blade under her tongue.

But now wasn’t the time for that.

Her fingers came up — slow, steady — brushing just once against the flower behind her ear like she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“Alright, come on,” she said, voice firm again. Not unkind, but all the softness tucked neatly back behind the grit. “Let’s get you out of here. It’s not safe.”

She glanced once toward the street, water swirling in gutters and lightning stretching pale veins across the dark sky.

Irene shifted her coat open slightly, just enough to drape one side around Allie’s soaked shoulders. She didn’t ask if she needed it. She just did it. Quiet, certain, like it was the only thing in the world that made sense right now. “This isn’t a place for bare feet and pretty things.”

         irene gets that same bright affection as she always does, allie’s always happy to see a familiar face. the early morning brings a potent enthusiasm, the rain a chill that ups the swallowtails in her heart to hummingbirds. her pulse becomes a steady hum, instead of a beat she can track. faster and faster and faster until allie’s bouncing on her toes. it keeps her warm, and it keeps her from springing forward to envelop irene in a very wet and cold hug. she giggles, shaking her head, shaking off irene’s warning about the mud. how’s she supposed to feel the ground, if she has her shoes on? silly, silly, silly.  “ you’re so silly, nothing bad’s gonna’ happen to me. ”

         her smile beams soon after, half-way preening, irene’s words feel special. you seem happy is like a treasure amongst the usual clouds of distrust that allie fights her way through with sweet smiles and cheerful words. “ i am happy. ”  and, really, she is, listening to irene with interest and curious eyes and-

         … guess there’s a first time for everything. “ really?! ”  the words spill out of her mouth, faster than she can process them, the same going with her eager hands, going to land on irene’s own. she manages softness, in that all-consuming, fond excitement.

         but as she turns back to irene, so giddy she almost trips over her own two feet, she realizes there’s something … missing. “ oh, oh wait- ”  the fabric of her skirt is completely soaked, which means finding the pocket of it with clumsy fingers is even harder than normal. blue eyes dart down as she finds another yellow flower, one like the bloom she had tucked behind her own ear. in allie’s warm palm, the flower breathes new life. its thirst satiated by the rain, it looks just as pretty as it did when she’d plucked it from the ground. allie reaches up to tuck it behind irene’s ear, smiling warmly as her hand flutters away, admiring her friend and the flower.  “ there, now we match! ”

⚡️ why don’t you just let your mother go?

Why don’t I just let her go?

You think it’s that simple? She gave up everything for me — her life, her dreams, her peace. Letting her go would be like tearing out a part of myself and pretending it never mattered.

She’s not a burden. She’s my mother. And I’m not about to walk away just because it’s easier.

So no — I won’t just let her go. Not now. Not ever.

Who in their right mind would do that?

SEND “⚡️” AND A QUESTION AND MY MUSE WILL BE FORCED TO ANSWER HONESTLY

Irene glanced at the notebook, eyes tracking the neat scratch of pen to page, then shrugged lightly. “Call it thirty-six even. I’ll mark the rest for morning and bag it when it’s all here.”

She didn’t say thanks for the compliment — didn’t even really react, not right away. But her gaze drifted toward the shelf where the skullcap was stocked, and the corner of her mouth tugged in something that almost passed for a smile.

“It’s better now than it used to be,” she said, quiet. “Place was running on fumes when I got here. Half the labels didn’t match the jars. Found a bottle labeled blessing oil that was just sunflower and perfume.” Her brow lifted slightly like she still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a joke. “Stephens doesn’t do much upkeep. She remembers things. Doesn’t always write them down.”

She watched the little creature — Sage — nose the edge of the basket, but didn’t reach to stop it. Just kept her arms loosely folded, fingers tucked into opposite sleeves. “Long as she doesn’t eat the poke root, we’re good.”

When Juniper mentioned the walk, Irene’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a pause. A flicker of something not quite hesitation.

“I wrap up in fifteen,” she said. “If you’re still around, I can walk a block or two your way.”

It wasn’t a favor. Just a practical offer. That’s how she framed it — like she was doing it for the sake of safety, not company. Still, there was something gentler in her voice than before, like the fatigue had settled into something quieter, less edged.

“You can leave your basket here if you want,” she added, tipping her head toward it. “I’ll keep it behind the counter for pickup.”

Then, finally, she nodded once, as if deciding it mattered enough to register: “I’m Irene. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me too.”

Juniper smiles easy as the other agrees to look over her list. Walking deeper into the store and looking through the shelves as she passes. This place is comfortable for her. Even if it was her first time in the shop there was comfort to be had around dried herbs and potent mixtures. Even Sage seemed to be relaxed among the scent and atmosphere.

“Ha- no, no um… banishing's. It’s not all for one thing really. Just trying to fill the coffers y’know?” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She tucked hair behind her ear awkwardly. It would be quite a while before she was ready to start growing her own ingredients. “Oh, that’s fine. I figured that verbena would be a long shot anyways.” 

As the basket was placed on the counter, she took a peek inside and smiled. The quality was nice. There was nothing worse than getting herbs with the beginnings of dry rot. These were pristine, however. Well worth whatever the price may be. “This is wonderful, thank you. Would it be possible for me to pick it all up tomorrow? Say late morning? Got pretty much everything else done today so I shouldn’t be held back on account of other errands. What will I end up owing you?” 

She takes out a small notebook to jot down the numbers, so she remembers them. Sage crawled down her shoulder and arm to stand on the counter. Peeking into the basket as Juniper reminded her to not touch anything she wasn’t supposed to. “Juniper by the way. I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on. New in town and let me tell you I was excited to hear this city has a proper apothecary. This place is very well stocked and taken care of.” She had no idea if this person cared about that sort of thing. But she felt the need to compliment the space anyways. 

The question came out of nowhere from the less than enthusiastic clerk. A soft question that made her smile. People here were surprisingly nice, even when they came off as cold. “I should probably be alright. It’s not that long a walk, streets are well lit. If you are heading the same way I wouldn’t turn down the company for a block or two though.” She offered back. While she felt like she could handle herself, and this woman probably could as well. There was nothing wrong with a little extra security.