[ your choice. He doesn't like the way that lays over him, heavy and cloying, wetting down the crispy edges of his excitement. This would be close for timing but: ]
one hour
[ That would mean he'd have to take the journal now, race it back to Glenvale and he'd just make it--but he has to bargain while they have shit to bargain with. ]
[ by whose reckoning? he could ask, in this place of broken clocks and watches beneath stationary suns and moons, but that bone of contention isn't worth worrying at when all he wants to do is rip Quentin to pieces. ]
not quick enough go to the pond near the campfire ill meet you there
[ One hour. By whose clock exactly? He gets the message though: ASAP, or it's his ass and everyone else's ass. As soon as possible is once Felix finishes his shorthand work on the page he's looking at, takes some hasty notes of the next few before hissing as Quentin gathers the book up and wraps it in the stiff cloth he carried it here in before stuffing it in his bag. Felix tries to bargain with him, too: for more time, for time to pack up so he can come with, for Quentin to get David, Leon, anyone to go with him.
[ But Felix needs to stay and firm up that shorthand while it's fresh in his mind, and Quentin lies that he'll get help on his way. It's better this way. To go alone, a show of good faith and a taking of responsibility. A layer of deniability if he has to beg or cry or make deals in a way he doesn't want other people to see. A layer of privacy might give the Slinger room to be--kind. Forgiving.
[ Sure. Why the fuck not? Better than imagining his guts falling over a hot chain.
[ It's a little over an hour by some people's clocks when Quentin creeps to the edge of the bond, bag clutched to his hip as he skirts between trees, wary of moving into the open. While he may not be making easy prey, he still moves like a deer, eyes wide and limbs pale, breath as still as he can manage as he looks for his appointment. ]
Quinn? [ He tips his voice low, but it still wobbles at the edges. ] I know you're not standing me up. I know you wouldn't be late for this...
[ whether it was his own anger that clouded his focus or the fog itself, Caleb reaches the pond only after several wrong "turns" through the dark woods in between realms, which does nothing to improve his mood. When he finally spots the trees giving way to a clearing where black water glimmers weakly beneath the ever-present moon, he trudges forward, his grip white-knuckled on the strap of the sling holding the Redeemer across his back.
He stops just short of the forest edge. There's no sign of Quentin around or in the surrounding trees. How much time had passed since his last message? The walk had seemed both too short and too long, but even if it had been more than an hour, the boy should have been here already. The campfire isn't so far away; he can glimpse its flickering light in the distance from where he's standing.
He grits his teeth. So that's how it is? Stealing something that he has no business even laying his bloody eyes on, much less touching, then making him wait for its return? The Redeemer's in his hands before he knows it, the motion so familiar it's almost instinctive. He glances down to make sure once again that it's loaded, then looks up to search the opposite treeline again—
There. Quentin, alone, furtive. A slink. A thief. Caleb sneers, steps forward out into the open, and raises his voice along with the Redeemer, its sights aimed directly at its target: ]
Get out here. Now. Before I make you.
[ to spear Quentin at this range would be a long shot, but only where distance is concerned. The very idea of missing is laughable. ]
[ Out here in the woods, his head is clearer than it ever is during a trial. He knows that he'll survive this one way or another. He knows Caleb is already pushing his luck lurking this close to the campfire, that he could have help if he needed it, that he's got more going for him than it feels like.
[ But it feels like, when the Redeemer levels at him, God finally turned over the right rock to find him muddy, squirming, guilty. Judgment coming down. He has to remind himself: Caleb isn't God. He didn't do anything wrong.
[ Quentin steps forward, but his jaw sets, nostrils flare indignantly. He's not quite out of the treeline as he pulls his bag (and the book inside) over the soft of his belly--a shield. ]
[ both Caleb's glare and his speargun remain steady on Quentin. If the notebook's actually in that bag he's holding in front of him, it might serve as some sort of protection... but only from a gut shot. While a painstakingly long death watching his own intestines getting dragged out of him inch by inch would be no less than what he deserves, one where he drowns on his own blood—with the Redeemer's spear piercing his gullet or lungs—might satisfy too. ]
I'll put it down once I've gotten back what's mine.
[ The beat cloth bag grumbles lowly as Quentin jerks it open, the subdued sound making a joke out of his vehemence. He pulls out the rag-wrapped notebook and yanks the fabric free enough to expose the top. ]
It's not like I can back out now, you're gonna get it no matter what, but I kinda figure you'd like it back without fucking up half the pages with blood, right?
That's about the only reason I ain't pulled the trigger yet.
[ but it's not a hard deterrent. He knows everything in the notebook by heart. If he had to, he could rewrite the whole thing. It'd just be a right pain to do so, especially if the Entity keeps calling him up for trials at the rate that it has been. Best for Quentin to hand it over sharpish. ]
All those pages better be there and just like the last time I saw 'em, or you'll answer for that too.
[ He's getting nowhere, isn't he? His expression steels up, insides tensing from his stomach all the way up to the top of his throat as he creeps closer step by step. There's part of him that wants to be a badass, standing straight and stepping surely, holding Caleb's overcast eyes with rebellion.
[ He manages the rebellious look, but the rest is undercut with shallow breaths and anxious glances to the gun. When he stretches the notebook out, his arm wobbles for the tension in his body, cover hovering just over the Redeemer's barrel. ]
[ with barely restrained impatience, Caleb watches Quentin approach. The moment the notebook's within reach, he reaches out with his left hand and snatches it away. Then, true to his word—even though he hasn't promised a thing—he does put down the Redeemer, lowering it so the spear points at the ground instead of at Quentin. But he doesn't sling it across his back again, and his grip doesn't loosen. His finger stays a hairsbreadth away from the trigger. Neither his stare nor his voice softens in the least. ]
Me. [ Instant, earnest, and wholly unbelievable--particularly to a man who's seen through more deft liars before. His jaw works, teeth scrape inside his lower lip. ] You want me to bring the notes I tried to make? They look like shit.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
bring it back now or ill make sure the next four i see die slow in the dirt instead of on the hooks
your choice
no subject
one hour
[ That would mean he'd have to take the journal now, race it back to Glenvale and he'd just make it--but he has to bargain while they have shit to bargain with. ]
no subject
not quick enough
go to the pond near the campfire
ill meet you there
no subject
[ But Felix needs to stay and firm up that shorthand while it's fresh in his mind, and Quentin lies that he'll get help on his way. It's better this way. To go alone, a show of good faith and a taking of responsibility. A layer of deniability if he has to beg or cry or make deals in a way he doesn't want other people to see. A layer of privacy might give the Slinger room to be--kind. Forgiving.
[ Sure. Why the fuck not? Better than imagining his guts falling over a hot chain.
[ It's a little over an hour by some people's clocks when Quentin creeps to the edge of the bond, bag clutched to his hip as he skirts between trees, wary of moving into the open. While he may not be making easy prey, he still moves like a deer, eyes wide and limbs pale, breath as still as he can manage as he looks for his appointment. ]
Quinn? [ He tips his voice low, but it still wobbles at the edges. ] I know you're not standing me up. I know you wouldn't be late for this...
no subject
He stops just short of the forest edge. There's no sign of Quentin around or in the surrounding trees. How much time had passed since his last message? The walk had seemed both too short and too long, but even if it had been more than an hour, the boy should have been here already. The campfire isn't so far away; he can glimpse its flickering light in the distance from where he's standing.
He grits his teeth. So that's how it is? Stealing something that he has no business even laying his bloody eyes on, much less touching, then making him wait for its return? The Redeemer's in his hands before he knows it, the motion so familiar it's almost instinctive. He glances down to make sure once again that it's loaded, then looks up to search the opposite treeline again—
There. Quentin, alone, furtive. A slink. A thief. Caleb sneers, steps forward out into the open, and raises his voice along with the Redeemer, its sights aimed directly at its target: ]
Get out here. Now. Before I make you.
[ to spear Quentin at this range would be a long shot, but only where distance is concerned. The very idea of missing is laughable. ]
no subject
[ But it feels like, when the Redeemer levels at him, God finally turned over the right rock to find him muddy, squirming, guilty. Judgment coming down. He has to remind himself: Caleb isn't God. He didn't do anything wrong.
[ Quentin steps forward, but his jaw sets, nostrils flare indignantly. He's not quite out of the treeline as he pulls his bag (and the book inside) over the soft of his belly--a shield. ]
I'm coming out, relax. Just put that thing down.
no subject
I'll put it down once I've gotten back what's mine.
no subject
[ The beat cloth bag grumbles lowly as Quentin jerks it open, the subdued sound making a joke out of his vehemence. He pulls out the rag-wrapped notebook and yanks the fabric free enough to expose the top. ]
It's not like I can back out now, you're gonna get it no matter what, but I kinda figure you'd like it back without fucking up half the pages with blood, right?
no subject
That's about the only reason I ain't pulled the trigger yet.
[ but it's not a hard deterrent. He knows everything in the notebook by heart. If he had to, he could rewrite the whole thing. It'd just be a right pain to do so, especially if the Entity keeps calling him up for trials at the rate that it has been. Best for Quentin to hand it over sharpish. ]
All those pages better be there and just like the last time I saw 'em, or you'll answer for that too.
no subject
[ He manages the rebellious look, but the rest is undercut with shallow breaths and anxious glances to the gun. When he stretches the notebook out, his arm wobbles for the tension in his body, cover hovering just over the Redeemer's barrel. ]
no subject
Who's read it?
no subject