a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes

Changing was always difficult—admitting that the world changed was hard enough, but accepting the changes in yourself? Even when they were for the better he struggled against them, that old self whispering things in his ears: telling him how weak he had become, that he had given up, given in, changed because the world demanded it of him and not because it was right.

But those were things he could deal with. If it truly bothered him that he wasn't a scheming, racist scumbag anymore, he could probably become one again. All he would have to do was convince himself it was the right thing to be, and choke that little voice of reason and compassion until it gave up and stayed choked.

His memory was worse. It had been damn near perfect once, but the past couple of years—"couple", hah, it was more like four now—it had been growing sketchier and sketchier. Small details, important but not life-altering (like names of strangers) escaped him much more often. Events became jumbled, timelines tangled.

He hated it.

He wanted to still have that crystalline, flawless memory. He wanted, desperately, to remember everything as clearly as he once had—those old memories were still pristine and clear.

So admitting that he had not recalled her name had been doubly damning; in part, he hated himself for having changed in a way he could not prevent, and in another way entirely, it felt like he was insulting her and calling her not worthy of remembering. Which, hey, everyone was worthy of being remembered. Wouldn't it have been worse if he didn't even recall greeting her? (Yes, yes, but it's not about that, it's about showing that he cares—)

"Glasgow," he repeated. Now that she mentioned it, it was familiar, but he wondered whose feelings she was trying to spare; his, or her own? If it were hers, well.. he couldn't do that much about it, really, aside from feel ashamed. But if it were his? If it were his, he wanted to shake her by the shoulders and tell her to never, ever make excuses for existing, or something.

Instead of asking, he simply gave her a small smile and said, "Glass-grow".

Oh how funny you are, Mauja.

“I’ve made a few glass blades for our sneaks.” Oh? For the sneaks? So they could stab herd sentries when they crept in to steal people? ( :D :D :D :D ) (.. wait, you're supposed to be nice now, aren't you?) “I’m supposed to make glass jars for the healers. We can’t have those being sharp and hazardous.”

"Mmmh," he hummed, wondering what they needed glass jars for, and simultaneously cringing inwardly because his first thought was something along the lines of are they dissecting people and putting the organs in them?. In all honesty, he could not imagine Alysanne cutting anyone open and pulling out their heart and putting it in a jar.. it was just too bizarre, but of course, it sparked the image in his mind of an Alysanne with blood up her forelegs and a deranged smile on her face, maybe a bit of gore splattered on her white star and stuck in her forelock...

Stop it already. His ears flicked, his tail flicked, and he let his gaze focus upon Glasgow again. "How come your glass gets jagged?"

[ @Glasgow ]

I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind