arrival. a. [Ephraim dreams of the forest again. No matter where they begin, his dreams inevitably converge here; there's a certainty in the smell of pine, of timber drifting slowly in out of the corners of his vision. Suffocating. Encroaching. Inescapable. This one doesn't feel different, not at first. Every dream for the past season has felt so real and his reality, well-- the two are hardly discernible. It's the deer that's new. It's the deer that convinces him-- Oh. Something's amiss.
And before he can think on it much at all, he's awake.
The waking he can take. With open arms, in fact. It means he's off that godforsaken fucking rock-- a place (a, fuck, a dry place) where no one knows him. That realization sinks in slow and smooth.
Laughter bubbles to the surface, slow at first before all at once tumbling out. He laughs so hard he could cry. Maybe he is crying. Who knows! And you stumble in on him in the midst of this, hand pressed to the soreness in his ribs, absolutely manic with what feels like freedom. But fuck is it uncomfortable to watch.]
b. [...Or maybe you stumble on him later, wandering around Deerington and taking it all in. It's not unlike what he's used to, but Ephraim is rarin' to get used to it as quickly as possible. In search of familiarity, he begins to ask the only thing he seems to know--]
What've you got in the way of work?
spinning wheels. [He could never be strong in the face of a siren song, no matter its form. Not for long, anyway. The spinning wheels call him and Ephraim is like a moth to the light, hand outstretched and near begging for what comes after.
So here we are in the after: an unassuming man in overalls following your every move. Obsession pulls taught at his chest, urging him ever-forward.]
S'cuse me-- [He ventures. Try as he might to play it casual, there's a frantic energy in his wide eyes that just won't look away from you. You can see a small dab of blood at the corner of his overalls pocket, fists tightly curled inside.] I'm not lookin' for no trouble, just a place to fix m'self up. Couldn't trouble you to point me in the right direction, could I?
wildcard. [No gods, no masters, no rules-- toss somethin' wild at me.]
ephraim winslow || the lighthouse 2019
a. [Ephraim dreams of the forest again. No matter where they begin, his dreams inevitably converge here; there's a certainty in the smell of pine, of timber drifting slowly in out of the corners of his vision. Suffocating. Encroaching. Inescapable. This one doesn't feel different, not at first. Every dream for the past season has felt so real and his reality, well-- the two are hardly discernible. It's the deer that's new. It's the deer that convinces him-- Oh. Something's amiss.
And before he can think on it much at all, he's awake.
The waking he can take. With open arms, in fact. It means he's off that godforsaken fucking rock-- a place (a, fuck, a dry place) where no one knows him. That realization sinks in slow and smooth.
Laughter bubbles to the surface, slow at first before all at once tumbling out. He laughs so hard he could cry. Maybe he is crying. Who knows! And you stumble in on him in the midst of this, hand pressed to the soreness in his ribs, absolutely manic with what feels like freedom. But fuck is it uncomfortable to watch.]
b. [...Or maybe you stumble on him later, wandering around Deerington and taking it all in. It's not unlike what he's used to, but Ephraim is rarin' to get used to it as quickly as possible. In search of familiarity, he begins to ask the only thing he seems to know--]
What've you got in the way of work?
spinning wheels.
[He could never be strong in the face of a siren song, no matter its form. Not for long, anyway. The spinning wheels call him and Ephraim is like a moth to the light, hand outstretched and near begging for what comes after.
So here we are in the after: an unassuming man in overalls following your every move. Obsession pulls taught at his chest, urging him ever-forward.]
S'cuse me-- [He ventures. Try as he might to play it casual, there's a frantic energy in his wide eyes that just won't look away from you. You can see a small dab of blood at the corner of his overalls pocket, fists tightly curled inside.] I'm not lookin' for no trouble, just a place to fix m'self up. Couldn't trouble you to point me in the right direction, could I?
wildcard.
[No gods, no masters, no rules-- toss somethin' wild at me.]