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[attr="class","lyrics"]Never be ashamed, my love,
all hearts are open graves

[attr="class","postcontent"] The day didn't begin with any particularly ominous omens. One of Taylan's plants was a bit wilted and he had a sliver of a cut on his tongue that was barely worth mentioning -- that was all. Ah, but he couldn't forget the table that had been pushed just a bit off-kilter, and that baffling noise made by stray dog wandering about outside. Those weren't so much ominous as simply odd, though, and certainly not of a magnitude worth worrying about.

Maybe he's just paying too much attention to meaningless details out of boredom. After all, the sporadic nature of his work means most of his days are languid, sometimes painfully so. And, with Taylan spending more time in the forest doing whatever it is that plantshapers do, his sense of isolation has taken on a sharper edge. (He thought he'd quashed that toxic lure of amity years ago, and genuinely detests that this is proving not to be the case).

He could be called presentable (probably, in most circles) by the time he leaves the house, not quite wandering, though also not with a single destination in mind -- he could stand to buy a few things, though none of them urgent. He'll figure it out once he gets there, he assumes. But, the further he travels along Sundial's streets, the more he notices that the town isn't itself. It wasn't obvious -- after all, the existence of magic leaves a rather high threshold for labeling something as odd -- but Desmond is too tuned in to the emotional states of those around him to not notice the sense of unease (if not downright panic) in the population at large. He knows that this street's corner store should have very well been open by now and didn't usually have that dog in the window, that the purple-haired Silvertongue stomping past in their pajamas never looks that furious, that the old woman living across the way had no reason to have grown a beard down to her knees.

His gait slows to a stop. The thought crosses his mind that he should turn around, go back to the flower shop, and lock the doors behind him. He should at least make fate struggle to drag him in to whatever spectacle today was turning out to be.

The thought also crosses his mind that it's already probably too late.

Regardless, the seer spins on his heels with an irritated huff of breath and sulks right back the way he came. He's only a few minutes away... Surely there was a limit of the amount of disaster which could befall him in that short breadth of time.

---

open!
Welcome to the cabbages party! I'm keeping the details of the trope that Des was hit with on the down-low for now :eyes:
& no seer spells were used in the making of this thread -- Des is just severely superstitious / pessimistic