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Who: Rosie, Carlisle
What: Rosie tries to harass Carlisle into friendship again.
Where: Carlisle's place, his garden specifically
When: your guess is as good as mine broseph though sometime after the Null invasion but not like too late just the right amount of time after
Warnings: Possibly some discussion of heavy topics!

There's a lot to take in with their change of scenery. Like many, Rose has been exploring this newfound world. While she doesn't like the arid climate, she finds it a bit fascinating. It reminds her of the deserts of Arizona, of such a foreign-seeming place in the United States. Japan didn't have any natural deserts. Compared to her home country's greenery, it seemed very... beige.

Perhaps that's why it's Carlisle's garden that stands out. Not that she knows it's his or that this is even where he lives. She wasn't trying to find him or anything after their last conversation went sour. In fact, it was actually the opposite. Rose had been steadfastly ignoring him since and letting him have the space he so requested. That was a thing she was trying to do now more than before: respect people's wishes.

"Woah, how are they keeping this place alive? These things should be keeling over by now..." the blond muses as she peers into the place. In normal circumstances, they would be wilting just as Rose feels like doing. But these aren't normal circumstances, aren't they?

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Something Rose undoubtedly noticed upon entering the garden in the park: that not only is it greener than it should be in the blistering heat of the dual suns, the potted plants and long tendrils of the vines that creep and cover the trees overhead still relatively lush, but the entire area has an almost dewy quality to it, the air cool and moist like the morning rather than sickeningly humid. Upon inspection, the entire area is covered in numerous sigils, circles and symbols coming together to form glyphs that then come together in a complex array: the lines trail down each pot, are etched into the wood surrounding plots and shrubs, coming together to a singular point of contact near a small cottage deep in the green.

She may also notice something else along the ground: black dots of an ink-like fluid, then a patch of the same here and there, forming a trail that leads around the back of the aforementioned building. The door to the structure is ajar, but its inhabitant is out -- that's likely him hacking around the back. He hasn't heard his visitor yet, but if he was hoping to avoid company by being out here, he's going to be sorely disappointed.

For someone fascinated by magic, she's definitely drawn in to look at the reminiscent of runes lines running through the garden. She remembers Feldspar and his machinations; he'd always been brewing or concocting something new. He made potions that ranged from health benefits to turning her tongue blue. She misses that wild vampire still and wonders how he is... if time isn't at a standstill back in her homeworld. It's not like she'd get to catch up, even if she did return.

Her senses are heightened enough still that she catches that cough. It's only seconds after that she spots in the greenery a hint of ink. The blond pieces things together and follows the inky black trail. "Hey, you alright-" she starts to ask, stopping only once she spots who the person hacking up his lungs is.

Carlisle. Oh. That's... not who she expected. He's likely not going to be happy to see her either if their last conversation was any indication. "Uhm, is that. Normal?" Something tells her it's not. She might have some Concerns but isn't about to pry too much farther.

It may or may not be normal, but given the way Carlisle is leaning on the cottage -- his fingers pressed tightly against the stone wall, face twisted in agony as he wheezes from the blockage in his throat -- it's most certainly painful. Despite his distraction, Rose's appearance startles him enough that he jumps back, his entire body stiffening as he nearly stumbles over his own feet, ink dripping from his mouth and welling behind one eye.

"Wh- what are you doing here?"

He apparently remembers their last conversation, and that he wasn't exactly polite to her. Perhaps he should try to be nicer, should folks come upon him when he's vulnerable.

That's not good. Even if it is something that's a regular occurrence, her instincts immediately scream bad news at the sight of ink seeping between his lips and clouding up one of his eyes.

"I, uh. I was just checking out the garden since, y'know, everything else is kind of... desert-y." It's the truth, which is surprising for Rose. Being so startled, maybe, is lending itself to a bit more honesty. The blond doesn't think too long on it but she can't think too long on it. She can't think too long on anything, her thoughts racing. She doesn't want to say the wrong thing right now. She doesn't want to potentially make this worse.

"Are you... alright?"

"No! I mean y- yes! I'm f-f-f-fine!"

Honest really should be the best policy for Carlisle, especially when he claims to be fine and very obviously isn't. He puts a hand back on the wall to steady himself, the other held before him as though he is either trying to hide his condition, or fears she'll attack him. Maybe it's both -- there's no telling, given his stammering.

"Of- of all people in this place, why is-s-s-s it so often that someone I h- have not gotten along with would st- stumble upon my g-g-garden? V-v-v-vampires and talking hedgehogs and y-you!"

Attempted courtesy might be the best policy for him, too.

... Well, alright then. She doesn't remember the stammer. The man had seemed quite more silver-tongued during their previous conversation. Has he always had this verbal tic? Is it more prominent when he's distressed? Rose is always trying to read situations as fast as possible and piece them together in a way that gets her out safe. She doesn't actually think Carlisle will actually hurt her but she's definitely on her guard now.

"Look, dude, I don't wanna' cause no trouble. I know we don't always see eye to eye but I was just curious. That's all."

A beat.

"Also, you are a worse liar than I am. You look completely not fine."

"You don't want to cause trouble, I d- don't want to cause trouble, so we're all just f-f-fine here, now aren't we?" His entire body trembles as he pushes his glasses to his forehead and presses his palm against his eye, the ink dripping from it burning. His hand is there for only a moment before he pulls it back to his mouth again, coughing into it painfully -- his glasses tumble from his forehead as he steps back again, trying to put distance between them.

"All right, I'm" —he wheezes a moment, trying to catch his breath— "I'm not fine fine, but this is but momentary d-d-discomfort that will pass much sooner if I'm left alone, so you are welcome to take your leave of my g- garden and..."

He trails off as he reaches to his hairline and finds his glasses are absent. Panic floods him faster than the ink ever could, his eyes darting to the ground, but given his absolutely dreadful eyesight and the fact that one eye is nearly useless at the moment, he struggles to find his spectacles.

"Are you sure about that?" she asks, already moving to gingerly pluck his glasses from where they'd fallen. Huh. His eyesight is bad. Look at that, she's learning all sort of things about Carlisle today! She'd never doubted that he needed them, of course, but... hadn't imagined it was so bad that he'd fumble like a bat in the light without them.

"'Cause I'm not the one stressing about the fact ink is coming out of you," she continues before handing him the spectacles. "How fast we talkin'? Sorry this happens a lot, it seems like it sucks."

Carlisle almost doesn't hear her, the constant chant of where are my glasses where are my glasses where are my glasses steadily rising in him like thunder of war drums, pressing him toward a battle with terror and his poor vision that he cannot ever hope to win. They're gone, he cries inwardly as he presses his hand to his inky eye, trying to curb the throbbing pain building behind it. They're gone, and I should have held my temper, but I didn't and now this woman is going to steal all my plants and turn them into weeds or whatever it was she was talking about before and I'll have to start over again maybe move the garden elsewhere if I'm lucky maybe she won't burn it down do I even know her name how am I supposed to tell anyone who did this if—

Her hand reaches toward him and into his line of sight, and he flinches, preparing for the worst... but there are his glasses in her hand, right as rain. His clear eye darts between the spectacles and Rosie's face before he finally takes them, his hands shaking has he slides them back onto his face.

"It... does suck," he replies with all the temerity (and understanding of slang) of a newborn lamb. "Wh- I'm sorry, why are you h- here again? I mean, thank you for- for my glasses, but er."

Forgive him, Rosie -- he doesn't know how to deal with people when he's like this, especially not those he hasn't exactly been kind to in the past, and certainly not those who show him kindness despite that.

If Rose ever thought she was paranoid, a glance at Carlisle's thought would prove otherwise. Not that she hasn't had similar rampant thoughts when in a vulnerable moment. During the ring, there were several times no doubt that she'd had similar frantic trains of thought. Running all the possibilities and opportunities in her head on how to come out on top, how to ensure that she was the victor because it meant her life. Has Carlisle been through something similar?

"Your garden's cool," she says, using more of that slang. Hopefully, that one is universal enough that he's heard it before and understands. "That was really it. Since the orchard is kind of a mess, I just... miss it, I guess. Nature. The world I was before this didn't have any either."

Rose has made friends with the woman who attempted to and then actually did murder her. Compared to that, Carlisle is a lot more tame.

"A- a world without... nature?"

He asks that question more as a distraction from his own predicament than anything, but he can't deny his curiosity. Despite his subsiding panic, he remains where he stands, his fingers pressed to his eye beneath his glasses, the other trained on Rose as though he's still waiting for her to turn on him.

"Yeah. In Haven, nothing grew. The soil was toxic. Anything we tried to plant just withered away and died." Radiation was the cause, she thinks. If Haven East was any indication at least. They'd never quite pieced together what had happened to that city, in the end... Nothing's pretty, Rose is positive of that, but so much of it and why they were there was shrouded in mystery.

"Ah."

As someone who often turns to his garden for comfort, the thought of a world without any touch of nature sounds... just terrible, really. A bit like the colorless Land Beyond Living he'll eventually be damned to. Perhaps that's why it unsettles him so, far more than Rosie's presence and the ink still trailing down his jaw, tracing the curves of his neck like a dark, black river.

He clears his throat, his good eye turning from her, and tries again.

"I... believe I am okay now."

For someone who's part animal and practically an inherent part of nature, Rose had never realized how much her life lacked until it was gone. That's why the orchard here bring her solace. It's why this man's garden had enticed her towards it.

The blond glances at that ink winding down his skin; a stark, startling contrast against it but she's trying not to be rude and stare. It's clearly not anything he really wants to talk about and she isn't about to pry.

"You sure, dude? I don't mind like... helping clean up or whatever. Not like I got anything to do or anywhere to be."

Her offer is met with silence at first, as well as a flash of uncertainty that crosses his face. He should be kinder to her, he chastises himself, or at least tolerable, especially when she seemed to express some concern for him, despite their last conversation. Carlisle pushes himself off the wall, wiping at his chin with his arm -- the bandage there is already stained from previous times like these, the patches of black faded, but still evident through the layers.

He doesn't normally invite people into his private abode, but what circumstances can a man hacking up ink consider 'normal'? "This way," he says, meandering past her and around the corner, toward the door. "I'm sorry, I don't- I don't quite recall your name."

Or he never got it with all the snitty remarks he sent her way. Whichever.

He doesn't have to be. Rose doesn't deserve any kind of kindness after some of the shit she's pulled and isn't about to kid herself into thinking that she might. She's hurt people before, people who didn't deserve it. But she was a monster then and refuses to be now.

If this is a frequent occurence, it might be better to have people around that can help him through it than those that might take advantage of his state. "That's alright, dude. I'm pretty low-key." Haha. Ha. What a joke. "My name's Rose. Nice to officially meet. Well. Despite the circumstances."

When compared to Carlisle, Rose is definitely low-key; he gives her an apologetic look as he pushes the door to his cottage open, stepping aside to allow her access. "Yes, despite the circumstances indeed."

Though small, the shed-turned-house is fairly cozy: there's one wall dedicated to gardening implements, complete with shelves and a worktable, while the rest of the interior is clearly a living space of sorts. There's a small sitting table, a bed, a couple of chairs, even a trunk in which he can keep a few things. Though he has another sweater in there, he'll be damned if he's undressing in front of a near stranger, ink all over him or not.

What he retrieves instead is a dark towel and a pail, setting them beside one of the chairs. He hesitates to take a seat, motioning for Rosie to take one first. He might be panic-stricken, peevish, and often sickly, but he remembers his manners for the moment, taking the time to conjure a palm-sized orb of water, dropping it into the bucket as he starts on another. Looks like irrigation really isn't much of a problem for him.

"Was it your home that didn't have nature? Or were you elsewhere before being brought to this place?"

... That's fair. "There are worse ways to meet, I'm sure." In fact, she's experienced quite a few throughout her time here and Haven. Not that she's overly keen to share any of those unfortunate incidents.

Instead, her attention is diverted to this quaint little place. A lot of work and care has gone into it. Almost too much. It can get a little... bleak, honestly, seeing how lived in some spaces are. How long people have been here. In Haven, they'd never had much in the way of personal artifacts but she still remembers the veterans touches to their spaces too. Having been a nomad before, she was very proficient at minimizing and didn't hold much sentiment for objects beyond her guitar. If anyone were to look into her room at Alphy's, they'd wonder if anyone lived there at all.

"Elsewhere," she answers, plopping down in the offered chair. "A place called Haven. That's kind of the joke, I suppose. Some haven it was."

"A cruel irony."

Carlisle slides into the other chair, conjuring another couple of orbs of water and dropping them into the pail, filling it enough that he can wash his face. He sets the towel into his lap and, after a few seconds of hesitation, pulls off his glasses and tucks them away. He's never very fond of parting from them, if his earlier panic was any indication.

"You can say that again. Compared to Haven, Hadriel is tame."

Rose watches him work quietly but curiously. It's not like magic she's seen before. Feldspar was more of an alchemist than a true spellcaster though. He enjoyed brewing and bubbling potions, adding magical effects. Glamours were his specialty. Though she was still sore sometimes about him turning her tongue blue for weeks by accident.

It's hard to think about Feldspar. Misto. Reyson. It's been three years since she's seen them... and it'll be an eternity without them. "That's pretty neat," she finally comments. "The water thing. Can you only do water or-?"

"Hm?" Carlisle glances Rosie's way as he pulls his face from the towel, having taken a moment while she was talking to attempt to clean his face -- there is still some ink clinging to the creases around his mouth, but that will have to do. His eyes flick back to the pail before him, the water a swirling, darkened abyss. "Oh, oh no. Minor conjuration can be utilized for a number of everyday purposes, though..."

He trails off for just a moment, sighing as he looks at what little of his reflection he can see in the inky liquid. Using his fingers to brush back loose, damp strands of hair, he slides his glasses back into place. "I would have thought that in a place where we all come from different worlds, I would have run across more magical sorts, but most people seem to be... fairly mundane, as though my world and all the magic within it is the oddity."

This seems almost routine for him. Like he's used to just... bleeding ink like that. Rose wonders if it's a byproduct of his conjuring. And if so, why does he still do it? Maybe stopping will have worse repercussions? It's all speculation, of course, and maybe she's wrong. She could just ask but- She doesn't want to pry or make him more uncomfortable. Which might be a funny thought from Rose, of all people, who didn't seem too concerned with people's comfort during her shipping chart.

"My kind don't exist in a lot of worlds," she admits. It's not actually anything disconcerting for Rose. She holds no love for her own people. Most of them, anyway. She thinks the more worlds out there in the multiverse where they don't exist, the better.

"But we have magic."

It's not that they have magic, but what else Rose says that certainly gets Carlisle's attention. He folds the towel slowly, his eyes on her as he tries to discern just what it is she meant.

"Your kind?" She looks human enough, but to be fair, so does he -- and looks can be terribly deceiving, can't they?

"My kind," she says again and in what will seem to be the blink of an eye she's changed. Hair of snow white instead of gold cascades past her shoulders. The ears on the side of her head have disappeared, replaced by tall white wolfish ones atop her skull. A tail of the same color now curls behind her where she sits and dusts the ground lightly. Eyes of amber stare Carlisle down, her now amused smile a lot more toothy than previously.

My, what big teeth she has. Fangs, really, but- Details.

"Yokai. It translates to demon but... It's a bit more complicated than that."

The transformation is more than startling: it spooks Carlisle so badly that he jumps in his chair, nearly sending the pail at his feet toppling over. He seems to judge saving his cottage floor as important as saving himself, and so he leans forward and catches it, his eyes never leaving the strange being before him. It's not the ears nor the hair that have his full attention, but those teeth so sharp and frightening.

"Oh. Oh, ah. Th- that is, um. That is s-s-something, isn't it?"

That nervous sort of smile pulls at the corner of his mouth again, clearly a reaction more than a truthful expression. With the bucket steady -- as steady as it can be in his shaking hands -- he leans back into his chair once more, as far as it will let him... and then further still as he scoots the entire seat back an inch or two. The last time he came face to face with a demon didn't end well at all.

"H- how is it m- more complicated? If that- if that isn't rude to ask?"

Please don't be rude to ask.

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