Night Comes To Tallahassee

[we_bring_hell]

The Bar does her best to mother the underage patrons of the Bar, nudging them gently towards self-care and withholding harmful things, but she is not omniscient. She couldn't have known not to give Harrowhark Nonagesimus pushpins and index cards and colorful string.

Harrow has secured a small sideroom in the library, the equivalent of a grad student cubicle, and something awful is taking shape there; the crazy conspiracist murder board equivalent of the bone construct lurking in the depths of Canaan House. There is color-coding. There are crossreferences. There are Tarot cards mixed in. There's a map of Canaan House. There are accidental yarn pentagrams that have somehow not yet summoned the soul of Pepe Silvia.

Harrowhark is dressed way down, and yet somehow at her most feral and goblin-like, sockfooted and gloveless in soft pants and black hoodie, as she shifts the cards around and examines new configurations. Ever so often she refers to her journal. She is humming something under her breath.

Comments

[we_bring_hell]

A fugitive, maniac urge fires through Harrow's skull, scared and alone.

What if I hugged him?

She does not.


"Be well. And please do not tell Wei Wuxian you overexerted yourself for me."

[lightamidchaos]

Something like a smile flickers at the corners of his mouth.

"Rest assured that I will attempt to avoid that."

He gets to his feet, and even manages to do so without needing to brace himself on the table.

"Be well, yourself, Harrow."

Lan Wangji nods a farewell to her, and leaves the room to go back in search of music, elsewhere in the library.