methuselah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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singillatim2024-01-09 11:38 pm
singmod) wrote in singillatim2024-01-09 11:38 pm
Entry tags:
- *event,
- alluri rama raju: xil,
- benton fraser: lorna,
- chloe frazer: tess,
- cornelius hickey: kates,
- eddie munson: hannah,
- edward little: jhey,
- francis crozier: gels,
- harry goodsir: karin,
- jack kline: jean,
- kate marsh: cheryl,
- kieren walker: cheryl,
- konstantin veshnyakov: jhey,
- lestat de lioncourt: beth,
- levi jordan: cirape,
- louis de pointe du lac: tea,
- max mayfield: jean,
- randvi: tess,
- renny oldoak (tav): jay,
- river song: ashley,
- rorschach: shade,
- vasiliy ardakin: yasmine,
- wynonna earp: lorna
but a strange light in the sky was shining right into my eyes
JANUARY 2024 EVENT
PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: NASCENCE: Following the strange dream at new year, a three-day Aurora takes place. During which, Interlopers discover a possible ally in the mysterious woman heard in the static and heard in the dream — potentially earning new abilities.
PROMPT TWO — ADUST: The Interlopers find out what happened to the owners of long-destroyed Milton House in the form of hauntings.
PROMPT THREE — THE VISITOR: Interlopers find themselves with an unwelcome visitor — a shadow doppelganger here to make everything absolutely worse.
THE AURORA: NASCENCE
WHEN: January 13th - 15th.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potentially disturbing dreams; dreams of being burned alive; some minor supernatural horror; some minor ‘ghost’ horror/hauntings; death of npcs in various ways including suicide, murder or exposure to elements.
In the middle of the month, it happens. A herald. The noise starts: faint at first, but then growing louder. An ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds difficult to place. There’s a kind of electrical buzzing with it all, a low, endless hum punctuated with cracks and pops. The sky is alive with sound, and with it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night: The Aurora has come.
Much of what happened previously happens again: Streetlights, illuminating the town’s roads; lights in stores and homes will come alive, buzzing and flickering at times. Previously abandoned cars will turn on, their headlights blaring. Electronics that had previously seemed broken flick on — and whilst there are no broadcasts available on televisions, and the radio waves only drone on in static, both only occasionally blaring standard emergency broadcasts. Any computers and phones will turn on, but will have no internet or reception. Instead, Interlopers may find texts and emails — many of them unsent. The everyday lives of their users stored within, now readable.
There are still some instances of the ‘ghosts’ from the previous Auroras, but they are now only faint outlines, and far fewer in number. However, whilst the Aurora would usually only last until the next morning on sporadic nights over the month — this time it will last for a full three days. The world is plunged into darkness, a seemingly endless night with only the Aurora to light the skies.
On the second night of lights and noise, a voice calls out to you: static-like, and distant — as if someone speaks over a radio. A woman’s voice. It is the same one you’ve been hearing for a few weeks now, but finally it is far stronger than the scant whispers of name and the word ‘help’. She is far clearer now.
“You.” she says. She may whisper your name, too. “I see you.” You’re unable to speak back, the communication is only one way. She sounds upset, but there’s something more… a kind of wonder, perhaps.
”It’s not just a regular aurora borealis, but then you probably worked that out already, haven’t you? It’s so much more than that. Everything is… changing.”
”I don’t know how you can go back. But— but I can help. Maybe. Maybe I can make this place easier, somehow. I need help, but I’m stuck—” There’s frustration in her voice for a moment. ”It took from you. Took you away. It doesn’t always have to take. We can take, too. Sleep. I will help you take back. You will survive this. You will not go into the Dark. This is not the end.”
You have no idea what that means, for the most part. But you might just end up taking the chance and doing as the woman asked, even if it’s difficult with the noise and light with the Aurora. Sleep, and a dream may come to you.
FREE RUNNER: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream you are a magnificent stag, galloping through the snowy woods with ease. You seem to go on and on, never tiring, never slowing. You feel like the wind, or perhaps the very wind itself carries you. Not once do you stumble or fall, even when the snow is thick and deep, or the ground is shaky and uneven beneath you. You feel free.
When you awaken, you feel the most refreshed you’ve ever felt since you first came here. For the final day of the Aurora, you are bursting with energy and even when the lights in the sky fade — that revitalised feeling within you remains. There’s something within you that understands: you are the Free Runner. The ground will yield beneath you, your energy will not desert you, the wind will carry you.
LIGHT BRINGER: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of sitting by a lonely campfire in the mouth of a cave at night, warming your hands. As you sit, a strange feeling comes over you, a desire to reach out to the flames. And so you do, reaching with both hands into the fire — gripping at the white-hot embers. It burns you, and for a moment there is blinding hot pain as the fire suddenly explodes around you, consuming you whole. But the pain soon stops. The fire doesn’t burn you. No, you have become the blaze — your body warmed. You burn bright enough that the darkness around you turns into day.
When you awaken the next morning, you feel warmed and comfortable. As if even the coldest of winters couldn’t reach your bones. The warmth remains even when the Aurora ends, and you are left with the innate understanding:you are the Light Bringer. The power of flame is at your very fingertips. You master the light, life, warmth.
AURORA CALL: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream you are standing in the very sky itself, at the Aurora’s height. Colour and sound twirls around you, within you — and you feel it curl into your body. Your head fills with noise, a chorus of voices calling out, snippets of conversation echoing within you. A woman’s voice calls to you, it is the same voice that spoke to you before you slept: “Don’t you understand it now? We are all connected. The Aurora connects us.”
And you do, you do understand it.
When you awaken, you feel connected to the world around you. To the very people who live amongst you. You feel less lonely, a kind of kinship with others. You have heard the Aurora’s Call and you have answered it, unlocked a connection with your fellow Interlopers. You will be heard.
NOTHING: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape, but only for a moment. The edges of your vision begin the blur with black, slowly closing in until everything goes dark and you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. You awaken, and although you feel rested, as if the dreamless darkness has helped you feel a little more ready to take on the day — nothing else about you has changed.
ADUST
WHEN: From mid-month to month end.
WHERE: Milton House.
CONTENT WARNINGS: fire; house fire; death of a child/children; hauntings; ghosts; mental manipulation; illusions of burning/being burned; potential injuries via falling/unstable building collapsing.
There is a reason why it is advised to avoid Milton House other than the simple fact that it’s a miracle the house is still standing. Once one of the largest buildings in the town of Milton, it is now a former shell of what was once a fine and grand house. It has lain in ruin for many years, dilapidated and host to a great deal of fire damage.
While he is in town, Methuselah will not speak of the place, but he often looks sad when it has been brought up in conversation. “A great tragedy.” he will say before falling into a pensive silence. “A blackened mark on the town’s memory.” He does not wish to say much more of what happened: sometimes there are things that are just too painful. He will continue to advise the ruin is left alone, out of respect, and the fact that the place is a danger.
Of course, advice will not stop anyone from attempting to get into the ruins and exploring the house, even if it is in fact highly dangerous.
The sounds of voices and whispers may be enough to pique anyone’s interest. You're sure you heard something, maybe you should go to check it out?
It is true in the fact that the house itself is incredibly dangerous structurally: floors and stairs may give way and you’ll find your foot (and half of you) falling right through the floorboards. Damp and rot that have long since set in, and it will be dangerous to breathe in. But you’ll find that the house itself is pretty ordinary: this was once a family home. Just about the entirety of the house and its contents aren't salvageable, but you’ll be able to find out a little about who once lived here.
There are faded, half-destroyed photos that show a family of five: a father, mother, and three young children all under the age of ten. The father with warm, beaming smiles, the mother has kind eyes, the two oldest boys with toothy grins much like their father, the younger girl looks shy, wanting to hide against her mother. They look happy. Just a typical family. In a world where so many strange things are happening, it feels so strange to look upon these family photos and around this home to realise that they simply lost their home in a house fire.
But as you hold a family picture, or some half-destroyed trinket: a toy, a shoe, a book, a vase, you’ll find the item will suddenly catch alight, bursting into flames in your very hands. The flames do not burn you, and as you discard the item, it will fall to the floor as if nothing had happened.
Then, it comes to you. Here and there. Different sensations that stop and start suddenly: the house groans and creaks around you; the smell of smoke enters your nose; the sound of fire cracking and popping with a roar fills your ears; the sensation of heat against your skin; the clawing and suffocating feeling in your lungs that makes you cough and choke; the sounds of terrified shrieks of children echoing above you. Feelings flood you: fear, panic. When you next turn around, the entire house is aflame around you, and you can’t tell if this is real or if you’re reliving some terrifying memory.
You need to leave, get out of here. For some, it will be what comes naturally. You’ll have to fight through the flames and escape the house before it burns down completely around you. You’ll have to fight your way out, find an exit not already consumed by flames — through a window, perhaps. Crashing out of the house and into the snow, you’ll look back and see Milton House just as you entered it: nothing more than a half-burned ruin.
But for others, there will be another pull. You are drawn upstairs, to the screams of children. You need to get to them, to help them, save them. You will battle through the flames, heading towards the ruins of what was a child’s bedroom, or towards the bathroom. Inside either, you will find a figure cowering, engulfed wholly in flames: one in the bathtub or one in the closet. You recognise them as the two sons from the family pictures.
Mom. They will call you. Or Dad. They weep, terrified of the flames. I’m scared, I’m scared. I want the fire to go away. Help me. Stay here.
The tragedy of Milton House is before you. More than just a fire. What is more tragic than the death of a child? What silences voices? Breaks spirits? Leaves one helpless to act in the wake of such a passing?
There is something to be done here. You are not so powerless. Calm the child. Offer gentle assurances. They will get out. They are safe. You are there for them. You will stay. Embracing them will set you alight. Too hot. Too bright. It will hurt, but you won’t burn. But don’t let go; holding them will eventually calm them down enough for the flames to grow dim, to slowly ease their spirits to rest.
Soon enough, the flames will go out and the child will disappear, leaving you alone in a decaying, dilapidated room.
In the churchyard of Milton, there is a family grave by the name of Barker. Three lie within it: Thomas it reads, and his beloved sons, Patrick and Christopher.
THE VISITOR
WHEN: The month of January.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: erything absolutely worse.
THE VISITOR — CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural beings; dream-related horror/disturbing dreams; doppelgangers; themes of depression; themes of self-harm; themes of isolation; potential themes of suicide.
It seems the dream of the New Year and the Aurora dreams are not the only odd sleep-related instances occurring this month. You first notice that something is off when a strange dream pulls you from sleep. The dream may feel like any particular dream you have, whether it be a usual nightmare or strange concoction your brain has conjured up for you this night. Maybe it’s a dream you’ve had before, maybe it’s a new dream entirely. But no matter the dream, there is one thing that is odd about it. In tiny moments within the dream, you notice that there is something different, something that feels out of place. Something is there that shouldn’t be.
A figure, tall and silent, entirely made of shadow stands lurking in the background. It looks human, but there is not much more that you can really describe further. It is a sad, unsettling presence.
When you awaken, eyes bleary from sleep, and you look about the room, to the bottom of your bed, for a half-moment you see that figure standing there silently. That unsettling sadness permeates the room, and after a few seconds of blinking and sitting up — the figure disappears. Perhaps it was just some trick of the mind, some half-awake illusion.
But the next time you sleep, it appears again. The same figure, the same emotions surrounding it. And when you awaken, it stands at the bottom of your bed once more. Only this time, it lingers, and you find yourself staring down the figure before it disappears once more.
Over the next several days, the presence continues to linger more and more. It stands silently in the corner of the room of your home; it hovers by the window, staring out into the snow; it stands in the middle of the road as you go about your business. More and more, it is there. Always standing, always watching — silent and sad.
No one else seems to notice it, only you. And over time, the shape of it seems to change — the vague, undefined shape of it slowly shifts into something you recognise. The same hair, the same height, the same way it holds itself: it is exactly like you. A perfect doppelganger, a second shadow. And with it, it exudes an oppressive sadness, a particular kind of loneliness. It is suffocating, bleeding into you.
It makes you withdraw from the world around you, from the people around you. Perhaps you stop spending time with others, retreating into solitude. You hide from others, keep to yourself. You find yourself not sleeping at all or perhaps sleeping too much. Perhaps what little you already eat becomes nothing. The shadowy doppelganger draws ever closer to you, close enough to touch you - ever hovering at your shoulder. Its presence bores down on you, making you feel small and more and more alone even with its ‘company’. No one else can seem to see it but you, mentioning it to others will earn odd looks, or even concern. It seems you and your double are alone together.
Hopefully, those around you will notice the change in you. How you stopped reaching out, how you’ve stopped taking care of yourself. Hopefully they will see something isn’t right and reach out. You are doomed to the doppelganger's company otherwise.
However, those around you can push the shadowy double away, and can break its influence and hold over you. Genuine care and concern for you will have it shrinking back. Perhaps it is a kind word, perhaps it is the gentle but insisting coaxing to eat. Perhaps it is an attentive ear to listen to your thoughts, to how the presence has made you feel. Maybe it is even the simplest of touches, an embrace or the holding of a hand, the grip of a shoulder. Continued connection with you will slowly have the visitor’s power diminish.
And hopefully it is done before it is too late, or it may be all too easy to fade into the Long Dark.
FAQs
1. Aurora Feats are now unlocked! Please see the following page for more information. Aurora Feats are completely optional.
2. Interlopers will only receive ONE Aurora Event. The only time this is available is this month. After January, players will have to wait for the next Feat round for another chance at an Aurora Feat.
3. This Aurora will last a full three days. It will be a period of only night.
4. For more information on the ghostly loops seen during the Aurora, see this previous event, under 'The Aurora: Aftershocks' prompt.
5. For new players who would like a little extra context regarding the woman can look at December's Tales From The Northern Territories, under the 'New Happenings in December' section.
1. Characters will not be physically burned in the fire, but only feel as if they have been. The effects of this illusion will last a short time after they're out the house before they will fade.
2. The only real injuries characters can sustain will be from fall damage, or if the floor gives way and their feet go through, etc. whilst in the house.
3. The children cannot leave the house. They will be too scared to leave. In addition, they are tethered to the house, given that this is where they died. Simply being calmed/comforted is the best way to help them and they will disappear after that.
1. An Interloper's Visitor can't be seen by anyone but the Interloper themselves.
2. The Visitor can be spoken to, but it will not speak back. It cannot be interacted with and is intangible.
cw: childhood/teenage trauma, abandonment issues up the wazoo
She's been on her own since she was twelve. She was an idiot to think any of that could change: not with Black Badge, not here. ]
Not in my experience, they don't.
[ Her voice is low and tired, but there's an old, old bitterness beneath it. The shadow twin puts a hand on her shoulder, but it doesn't comfort, only peels away a little more of everything she's been trying to put between herself and what happened all those years ago. ]
In my experience, they commit you. And when that doesn't work, they put you into the system. Then juvie. And nobody, not one goddamn person, lifts a finger to help, because you're the crazy girl who –
[ She takes a sharp, hard breath and subsides into silence, staring at the table. ]
It doesn't matter.
oh it's just happy fun times here
When she does finally speak, she's careful with her words. She actively thinks for the words she's about to say before she says them. She doesn't want to offer anything hollow: ]
It matters. I'm... I'm sorry that you've never been afforded it. [ The help. The kindness. ] That you weren't given the experience you deserved.
[ Because no one deserves... all of that. ]
I don't think you're crazy. A little weird, maybe. [ There's a tiny smile, almost teasing. ] But not crazy.
[ Wynonna Earp definitely... has her ways. And much of that is definitely not something she's ever really dealt with all that much, if ever. Kate Marsh's worldview is... so small. She knows that. She's quiet, finishing up the tea and adding a little maple syrup to it. It'll probably be the weirdest tea she's ever had, but it's tea, and it'll warm her up.
She offers the mug out to her. ]
I can't change anything you've lived through. [ Like, she's not dumb. There is no magic wand. ] But maybe you can let me— help, when you're 'a lot'.
[ Like right now. ]
no subject
The thing is, she is crazy. She feels crazy; she feels like she's losing bits and pieces of herself, sitting here in this cabin with only that shadow for company. She feels fragile in a way she can't afford, like one good hit would simply shatter her into pieces.
Even the mug Kate offers to her feels like almost too much, the gentle warmth overwhelming her cold hands and reminding her of the flames that closed in on her in the burned down wreckage of Milton House. Wynonna curls her fingers around the mug and looks down into the tea, the scent of spruce and maple floating up to be breathed in. Her salivary glands spring to life with a sudden ache, flooding her mouth – how long has it been since she ate? Since she even drank water?
It takes all she's got to lift the mug without letting it jitter hard enough to splash the liquid out all over her hands and table, but it still trembles when she brings it to her mouth for a sip.
Speaking of weird: this tea. But it was kindly meant, and just a few sips of the hot liquid have her feeling a little more human. Wynonna glances at the shadow, and is surprised to see it's backed off a little. ]
...yeah, okay.
[ Her gaze drifts to the black and white photo. Waverly would tell her to take this girl up on her offer. Waverly wouldn't want her to be alone all the time. Wynonna turns, slight, to look over at Kate, her mouth pressing into a tired curve that isn't quite a smile, but which lends a little warmth to her previously distant eyes. ]
The tea helps. Good call.
no subject
[ Tea absolutely helps, and she takes her own mug, warming her hands with it for a few moments. It feels especially well earned after sorting out the stove fire and making tea, and she exhales a little — almost accomplished. Especially with Wynonna actually trying to drink it, Kate's genuinely pleased with that. She definitely looked like she could do with it. ]
... Your cabin's pretty neat, by the way. Definitely a good place for someone who 'doesn't play well with others'.
[ It's a very gentle tease, and she smiles again. But honestly, it's kind of true though — a cool little place to escape from everyone. It's actually really nice, just having somewhere to get away from it all.
(Oh, yeah. Tim's definitely not getting his stick back now. Practically forgotten about now.)
Finally, she affords herself a real look about Wynonna's cabin. It's pretty cosy, especially now the place starts to warm up. The photo catches her eye as she looks around and she wanders over for a closer look. ]
Wait, is this you? [ Yeah, that kind of looks like Wynonna. And the youngest of the three girls must be Waverly, since Wynonna told Kate she was younger. But... the third? She frowns a little. ]
You never told me you had two sisters?
cw: child abduction and murder
[ Kate tosses her own words back at her, teasing, and Wynonna’s mouth twists into something more recognizably a smile. Waverly would give her the same shit. Kate’s not much like Waverly, really, but there’s that same sweetness and warmth and – this is just a suspicion, but the more she gets to know Kate the more she’s confident she’s right – there’s something tough buried deep in the girl. She’s soft, but she’s not spineless. If there weren’t something sturdier under that quiet exterior, she wouldn’t be in here gently bullying Wynonna into tea and small talk. She wouldn’t be saying things like maybe you can let me— help, when you're 'a lot' and meaning them.
It’s the small talk – she knew there was a reason to hate it – and her own musings on Waverly that leave her unprepared for Kate’s question, and it hits her center mass without a chance to brace, taking the wind out of her like a fist to the solar plexus. She breathes out, heavy, her glance skittering to the photo, to the girl in the embroidered white dress, the one Kate’s asking about.
Had being the operative word.
There’s Waverly, tottering along in front of them with the determined steps of a six year old; there’s her, her hair in braids and her hands full of flowers. And there’s – ]
That’s Willa. My older sister.
[ Her own scream tearing at her throat as the glass breaks and Willa disappears. Peacemaker’s weight heavy in her hands. The thunder of the big gun as she pulled the trigger. ]
She was killed not long after that picture was taken.
[ Not died. Willa wasn’t sick, she wasn’t hurt in an accident. They took her. They slaughtered her. She hadn’t even been old enough to be the Heir; she’d just been a kid. ]
cw: brief allusion to suicide
I'm so sorry, Wynonna. [ An older sister. Willa. Kate's eyes are sad, sorry for the loss. The loss of a child is an unfathomable thing. And... killed. Willa was just a girl. It's not fair. ] I couldn't imagine a pain like that.
[ Two younger sisters, and she couldn't imagine the worst happening to either of them. But there's a pause, and she considers: and yet she could have left them in the same position, back home. Still might.
She swallows down the guilt that dares to creep up her throat. It tastes bitter, too bitter. But this isn't about her. ]
What... what was she like?
no subject
Probably she shouldn't have said shit about it to Kate. The girl is so sensitive, and she cares so much, and she's already got a whole host of her own problems on her slim shoulders. She doesn't need Wynonna's crap landing there, too, weighing her down even more.
But she's asking anyway, because she's kind, or maybe because she genuinely wants to know, and Wynonna looks again at the photo, then up. Her eyes lose focus as she thinks back. Each memory is reluctant, resistant. It feels like trying to walk through sticking mud. ]
She was really brave.
[ She'd taken to Daddy's training without any complaints. They all knew Willa would be the best Heir ever. She'd been born to it. She was meant for it. The rightful heir. ]
And funny, and smart. We used to do everything together. We were like two peas in a pod, except how she was the good daughter. She was special.
[ She glances back at the photo, blinking back the haze of memory. ]
She used to call me 'Nona.'
no subject
... Eldest sisters tend to have to be the one setting the better example. [ Speaking as the eldest of three girls, Kate— well, she gets it. She gets what it's like to be in that position. The good daughter. ] I guess someone has to be, to let the younger ones get up to mischief.
[ Her smile is genuine and knowing, but sad. She's supposed to be setting the better example, she's supposed to be the good daughter. All she's done is let them all down. She's hurt her father terribly with what she's done. ]
'Nona'. [ She echoes with another smile, more brighter this time. It's very cute. ] ... Katie. That's what my sisters call me.
[ They're such precious things: Nona and Katie. They're Wynonna and Kate, but to their sisters it's Nona and Katie. ]
She sounds really awesome, Wynonna. I'm sure she was an awesome sister to you and Waverly, too.
no subject
But Wynonna had loved them both. Still does, even though one is only a memory now and the other is so far away her brain breaks to think about it. And neither of them are here right now, but Kate is, and when Wynonna glances over at her, she can't bear to make that sad smile even sadder with a truth that doesn't really need to be spoken. ]
She was pretty great.
[ Her mouth works, presses, half-curves into something that isn't quite a smile, is more like her lips trying to remember the shape of one, but there's some light back in her eyes now. ]
Katie. That's cute. [ It is, very. The kind of nickname that sounds especially sweet in a little girl's voice. ] Your little sisters give you a hard time?
no subject
She misses it. A whole lot.
Kate considers the question for a moment, her nose scrunching up briefly. ]
Only sometimes. About as much as a hard time as the daughters of a Pastor can give. [ There's a tiny, fond chuckle. ] So, probably not that much, in comparison. But they care about me, mostly. That's just what sisters do.
no subject
Dolls better keep her safe. If anything touches a hair on Waverly's head, Wynonna will kill him herself. ]
Your dad's a pastor?
[ That explains... maybe kind of a lot. Big sisters and little sisters; fathers and daughters. Seems like Kate's as much of a chip off the old block as Wynonna herself is. Of course, for her, that's probably a good thing.
Not that Wynonna's darkened the door of a church in years. Not that she has any clue what it might be like to be raised a pastor's daughter. Probably there were a lot of rules. ]
He a good one?
no subject
[ She misses him a whole lot. She hurt him so much with everything, and he still cared about her — still loved her. ]
Supportive, too. He... he was concerned about sending me to Blackwell— [ Her smile is tight-lipped for a moment. She remembers the email her mother sent her: Our concerns about sending you to Blackwell seem justified. ] but he wanted me to do well. Going to somewhere like Blackwell would have been great for college.
no subject
Sometimes you remind me of my baby sister. I told you she was smart.
[ College hadn't exactly happened for Waverly, either, but unlike Wynonna, she'd managed to scrape a four year degree almost out of thin air. ]
She did a college degree through a correspondence course. Crazy, right? But she's always been the one people figured would go places. She's special.
[ She looks over at the younger girl. The exhaustion and weary blankness of her shadowy twin is still pulling at her bones, making each breath a chore, but it helps to think of Waverly. It helps to have Kate here, saying she wants to help.
Wynonna's mouth tucks, small flickering motions that aren't quite a smile, but there's a sad warmth in her eyes. ]
You are, too.
I think we might be good to wrap this?
Wynonna must miss her a whole lot, just as much as Kate misses her own sisters. She's sorry for that. Sisters are a special thing— but, Kate's eyebrows are raising a little: You are, too. ]
I.. don't know about that. [ There's a little flush in her face, eyes softening for a moment. She utters soft breath of amusement, head ducking a little. It reminds her of Lieutenant Little, trying to coax her down from the Basin's edge: you have.... kindness, and goodness. Those things are precious, and I believe that they— have meaning.
She considers for a moment, offering Wynonna a small smile. ]
Although.. I guess by going by that logic, that makes you special too. Everybody is, just in their own way. Sometimes it's just not always super obvious, y'know?
[ Wynonna's... definitely got a kind of charisma about her. Brave. She's a good person. She's special, too. ]