Rekkuza

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

September 7th
Warehouse
Interactions: Vicky (Mentioned), Ella (Mentioned)

---

Carnage. Blood, everywhere. Screams. Kersten sat there, watching with wide, uncomprehending eyes. It was like his mind refused to function in sheer terror, a strange, dense haze impeding conscious thought much more efficiently than drugs ever did. He very well might’ve stayed there, unmoving, until his life was snatched away from him as well, had someone not called his name out.

She turned her head. She felt like she was underwater. Chef was there, pulling Vicky to her feet, calling out for her to help. She looked around some more. All of the other people that used to populate the Stoner Corner alongside her had disappeared. Probably trampling over each other, rushing to the exit. Kersten hadn’t noticed them leaving. They’d broken her bong. She liked that bong. A shame…

And then suddenly they were wet. Something warm, and slightly viscous, and that smelled like pennies was drenching their shirt, covering their face. They had stood up by then, though they had no memory of doing so. There was more screaming, much closer than before. Chef wasn’t there anymore. Chef was being spilled everywhere. Chef was what was covering them and staining their clothes.

Vicky was screaming. Kersten was screaming too.

Reality slammed back into her senses all at once, the fog fully gone and survival instincts taking over. Vicky stopped screaming (or did she only stop making noise?) and was dragged away faster than Kersten could try and catch her. Her heart sank into her stomach.

”VICKY!” They shouted after her, one arm stretched out futilely. They tried to ignore the sudden nausea at the thought that her lacking reaction time might have cost Vicky her life. They failed.

A clinking sound, like glass toppling over without shattering. The noise was small and soft, almost melodic, and yet, to Kersten’s ears, it pierced through the surrounding cacophony like a gunshot.

He looked over, and caught a flash of yellow. The object was laying in a pool of fresh blood, and yet, it was strangely… clean. Not a scratch marred its surface, and no stain nor dust seemed to stick, not even the surrounding blood. It almost seemed to gleam in the darkness, as if lit by a dim inner light.

---

When fabrics get torn, other weaknesses tend to appear in the weave. Some are rather dire and require immediate attention; edges fraying and eating at the fabric, fibres breaking under stress and creating holes, the old tear itself widening even further…

Others are small, and inconsequential. Disturbed and loosened fibres will move around, or be moved, and then eventually find their way back to their proper place, leaving the weave unharmed. But in the tiny moment when their order was disturbed, a gap, a very small gap, forms. And in that tiny moment, through that tiny gap, things can…. slip in.

When the fabric of reality was torn through, its weave was disturbed, and many of these pinprick gaps appeared, if only for a fraction of a fraction of a second. All closed right back up, before anything could coincidentally make its way through. All but one.

Whether through fate, divine intervention, or simple luck, one gap let through something. An item, born of pure potential, belief yearning to take physical shape. It fell through, unseen light shining from its glass body, into a dark warehouse slowly but surely filling with death.

---

Kersten looked at the glass object. Its shape was strange, like it wasn’t really a shape at all. They couldn’t seem to actually tell what it was, only that it was. They chalked it out to the poor lighting.

The floor was rumbling. It had been since the panic started, but now it was doing so more strongly. Like how it did when Chef got bisected, and Vicky was taken. Whatever caused this was approaching.

She took the glass without thinking much. If anything, she could throw it, use it as a weapon, whatever little good that would do.

The awakening wasn’t brutal, or spectacular. Kersten almost didn’t notice it. It was a tiny itch in his head… no, in his brain—no, not that either, in his mind—as his new sense bloomed. It felt natural, like moving a limb, except in this case you had simply never needed to move it before, so it felt the tiniest bit odd, but not that much. He blinked, and the shapeless piece of glass was no longer shapeless.

It was an ear of corn, with a face, and arms, and legs, and it was made of glass, and in any other situation Kersten might’ve cooed over how tacky of a bong this was, except in any other situation people, their friends, weren’t currently being killed by the droves by some kind of invisible monster that was now perhaps, very possibly, gunning for them next.

Except now the monster wasn’t invisible anymore. Whatever the (magic?) bong did to awaken her new, as-of-yet-unknown sense also seemed to have let her see the monster. And as the towering bloodstained mountain of fur and fangs and claws and muscle stalked towards her location, head lowered and teeth bared, she did the first thing that came to mind.

Kersten clobbered the monster over the head with the (definitively, absolutely magic) bong as hard as he could, and then booked it towards where Ella was waving people through a broken window, clutching the miraculously unbroken bong the entire while.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

September 7th
Warehouse
Interactions: Lexi @FernStone

---

He was wrong. He was wrong he was wrong he was wrong hewaswrongwrongwrong—

Everyone was always trying to get to him, Camille knew that, so why did he even try? Why why why? He tried so hard, he always did, and they just used that against him, again and again and again.

Was there truly something so profoundly wrong with him to make him such a target? Was it him? Was it them? Was it because they were Americans? His life wasn’t always like this, or was it and he never noticed?!

He should have trusted his instinct, should have listened to the voice at the back of his mind screaming at him to trust no one, the voice now screaming both in triumph and horror at being proven right.

And now Lexi thought he was weak. An easy target. A loser, a pushover. That she could do whatever. He couldn’t have her think that. Everyone would be watching. He couldn’t show fear. He couldn’t show anything.

Anger. Anger was the answer. Anger hides fear. Anger protects. Anger is easy to show.

Camille bared his teeth. ”Fermes ta câlisse de gueule.” His voice was flat, neutral, like it usually was, but the feverish gleam in his eyes showed the moment he decided to do something stupid. Something violent.

In one swift movement, he grabbed the front of her jacket, dragging her close towards him, and reared his head back. A few split second calculations flashed through his mind, as he swung his head back towards Lexi’s face. Hitting her mouth was a bad idea and would result in cuts. Hitting her nose would hurt, but he didn’t want to break it. The temple would be ideal, would severely stun her or knock her out, but he didn’t have the right angle for it.

Instead, his forehead crashed into the top of her left eye socket. Not even a second later, not flinching from the impact, he struck again, this time aiming for her left cheekbone.

Come morning, he’d have a small bruise on his head. It was nothing compared to the black eye he’d doubtlessly left behind.

He released his grip on her jacket, using the same hand to roughly push her away from him. ”Dat iz why people do not speak wit me.” He threw his cigarette on the floor, crushing it under his foot to put it out. ”Leave.”

Leave leave leave leave leave—

---

September 7th
Warehouse
Interactions: Vicky @Atrophy

---

Oh, okay, so it was that bad. Kersten swallowed a pang of hurt at Vicky’s words. She was drunk, and heartbroken, and didn’t know just how close to his insecurities she hit. It wasn’t important right now anyways, making sure she would be alright was the priority. So instead of snarking back at her, he just put on a placating smile. This would call for a bit more delicacy than he’d first thought.

”Alright, I’m sorry Vicky, you’re right, you’re fine.” She handed her the promised bag of Cheetos, surprisingly still sealed amidst the sea of munchies-havers around. ”And I don’t care what Chef said, haven’t really spoken to him at all tonight, and I’m honestly glad for it, ‘cause he’s gotta be a right dick to ditch you like that in the middle of a party.” That much was true, the man in question had only popped in briefly at the start of the party to get his fill, and then left them right after. Not much time for conversation.

He waited a few seconds, testing the waters. When Vicky didn’t immediately start tearing into him, he continued. ”And alright, I’ll admit I didn’t know you smoked, but I’m still gonna make sure you’re gonna be fine first.”

”You had a couple drinks. Alcohol can make you a lot more sensitive to THC.” And also you’re agitated, Kerten added mentally, but not out loud. That would have been a sure way to set their guest off again.

“I don’t know how well you’ll react, and I don’t want you getting a bad trip. It’s that simple.” They grabbed a lighter and a joint from their breast pocket, placed it between their lips, and lit up. ”Hallucinations, paranoia, panic attacks… These are all things that could happen if we’re not careful. So we’re gonna be careful.”

She took a few more puffs, put out her joint in a nearby ashtray, and pocketed it again for later. ”So… We’re just… gonna relax, and wait for your friend to bring you your drink, and then we’ll see about getting you, like, a brownie or something.” She gave Vicky what she hoped looked like a reassuring smile. ”She’s a good friend, you know. You’re not gonna die alone, not with her around.”

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

September 7th
Warehouse
Interactions: Lexi @FernStone

---

”Lacterr. Laterr. Lie-terr.” The sounds just wouldn’t come out right, the vowels twisting behind his teeth, his Rs refusing to be anything else than guttural. Annoying. Everything about this was an exercise in frustration.

Camille huffed, smoke curling out from his mouth and nostrils. ”Tsk. Wat-everr. You underrstand. Dat is the imporrtant parrt.”

His stare eased off his new companion, returning to the crowd. He’d felt a couple of people looking over, caught a few in the act as well. Were they looking at him? Or at Lexi? Was she someone worth staring at? He had to admit he had no clue, he didn’t know her or of her until only a few minutes ago. He hoped she wasn’t, he hoped that her presence wouldn’t drag anymore attention to him. It set his teeth on edge.

Their eyes felt like ants digging their way under his skin.

”De parrty iz… fine. I ‘ave notting again parrties.” His eyes nervously followed the arcs of the dancers on the dance floor, catching how they bumped into each other, laughing all the while. ”But de people... Too many. Not use-ed to it.”

”Maybe derre arre morre people in de school ‘erre dan in my entirre village. Probably iz de case. It, euh, feels werrd.” Was that too much? Was he opening himself too much? It felt like a normal thing to say. He wasn’t stupid, he knew he didn’t look like he was having fun, so trying to pretend otherwise was just stupid. But should he have made up an excuse? But then again, it’s not like no one knew where he was from, that was very easily verifiable information (and oh, how he hated that fact, but it’s not like he could change it…)

Dammit, he really has to stop getting in his head so much. What’s done is done, and can’t be taken back, and he almost missed Lexi’s question. What did he like? At least, he’s pretty sure that’s what she asked, though he wasn’t sure what excrements and/or swears had to do with it.

…what did he like? Quite a lot, actually. He liked going to the beach, and listening to the waves. He liked watching the seal pups in winter, and counting shooting stars during the Perseids. He liked playing dek hockey with his friends. He liked being safe, and alone.

But he didn’t have any of that anymore. All he had left were…

”Books. I like books.” He tried to smile again, though it felt too stiff and bitter to truly be anything more than a grimace. ”Dey arre one of de last Frrensh ting I ‘ave left ‘erre. Also, dey arre fun. Everr read Beckett? ‘E trransla-ted ‘is own, euh, te-a-ter pieces? Iz dat de rright worrd?”

His frown returned, more thoughtful than frustrated this time. ”Wat-everr. ‘E trransla-ted ‘is worrk in English, iz wat I mean. Iz a good trranslation. I like Fin de partie, euh, Endgame, de most.” He remembered having fun comparing the two versions. It had been good practice back then too, comparing how one sentence became another when the language changed. To this day, his English reading comprehension was his strongest suit, leagues better than his speaking, hearing, or writing.

He caught Lexi’s eyes, and something in them made him hesitate. They were sharp, and seemed to look not at him, but into him. The part of his brain still tracking everyone else’s movement, just in case, was screaming at him, warning him. He messed up, he should not have said that, he should not, but why? Why shouldn’t he have?

For once in his life, he shut out the warning. He must’ve simply been a bit boring. ”Ah, but dis prrobably interrests you not a lot. Sorry. Not de best time to talk of tragi-comédies.” Hopefully the conversation wouldn’t be too derailed.

---

September 7th
Warehouse
Interactions: Vicky @Atrophy, Tuyen @FernStone

---

To say Kersten was taken aback when Vicky approached him would be an understatement. They never really spoke, like, at all. Chief would sometimes come see him for weed (a lot of people did) but as far as he knew, Vicky was not someone who partook in the green goodness. So an absolutely smashed Vicky loudly demanding drugs from him was even more of a surprise.

Looks like the curaçao did its job.

She looked down at the shorter girl's face, her eyebrows drawn together in worry. Even through the haze of her own habitual high, she made short work of cataloguing every single one of Vicky’s symptoms. Lack of balance, dizziness, slightly slurred speech… Diagnosis: wayyyy too much alcohol, but no other drugs. Good. Wouldn’t do to mix weed, alcohol, and stimulants…

They briefly peeked over behind Vicky, quickly spotting the other girl that always seemed to follow her. Tuyen, if they remembered correctly. A long time friend, they were pretty sure. They subtly motioned to Vicky with their head, mouthing out a message to Tuyen.

Is she okay?

”Don’t worry sister, you don’t owe me anything. I’m all about sharing, you know?” He gave her a smile, any trace of worry instantly erased from his face. ”Here at Kersten’s Fresh Green Produce, all products only cost a smile, and the promise to spread the good vibes.”

”Whiiiiich is why I’m not hooking you with anything for now, dear Victoria. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are obviously very, very drunk.” They patted her back as if commiserating, and then wrapped an arm around her shoulder to gently begin to guide her off the dance floor and towards the Stoner Corner.

”Nothing wrong with that, by the way, that’s what most of the people are here for after all. It’s just that mixing too much booze with the green stuff in a loud room is a great way to end up on a bad trip. Or in the hospital. Or both.” They’d seen enough people not know their limit, and they weren’t looking to facilitate that tonight. Or any night, really. They weren’t totally irresponsible, only slightly.

”So instead, your good pal Kushten will hook you up with a nice comfy beanbag and a bag of cheetos,” if Richie hadn’t finished them all by now, ”and then we’re gonna chill until you sober up a bit, and then we’ll make sure you’re not sober for a good long while. I’ll even give you the really good bud I usually keep for myself.” And if she insisted on smoking before Kersten judged it was safe, well, she was probably too drunk to tell apart real weed from crushed up oregano.

She glanced back towards Tuyen, giving her a reassuring smile. ”I just want everyone to have a nice evening. That’s why I made my brownies extra weak tonight. Even newbies like you should be able to handle them!”

Looks like sneaking out back with Richie would have to be postponed until these two were properly settled in. Oh well, no big deal.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

September 7th
Warehouse
Interactions: Lexi @FernStone

---

He watched her approach from the corner of his eyes. At first he’d hoped she would do like all the other party goers, and simply walk by him on the way to the bar or the bathroom or whatever other corner they were heading to. Then she stopped next to him, and he switched to praying, praying she was just looking for a smoke spot, that this was all a coincidence. Of course, neither Mary nor God bothered to answer his prayers.

”Want one?”

Camille did not flinch. No, he simply… tightened his grip on his can a bit too much. It’s not really flinching if it’s just his hands that reacted, if his face didn’t change, if no one noticed.

He bent down quickly to put down his now crumpled, still half-full beer can. It looked natural, he thought. It’s not like he could have put it down on a table or anything, seeing as there were none near him. The ground would have to do.

The girl was still speaking to him. He only caught half her words, something about the French, and… was she calling him a coward…? His lips tugged down in a subtle frown. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt this time: he might have just misheard her through the obnoxiously loud music.

”...Please speak…” He stopped, frown deepening. What was the right word again…? He was fucking blanking again, goddamnit. He hated how easy it was to forget the right, exact word, it made him sound like an idiot. ”...morre, euh, slow. I am still not verry good wit English."

His eyes flickered down to the opened pack of cigarettes, then her face. She was very eye-catching, with bold makeup, and some admittedly very nice clothes. A small trickle of jealousy made its way through his mind. He wished he could have a nice jacket like hers. Hell, her jacket might even fit him as it is, she was a bit shorter than him, but not by that much, and their shoulder widths seemed pretty similar…

Ah, wait. She was offering him something. A cigarette. Why? What game was she playing? Why come to him out of anybody in the room? Did she want something from him? What it a trap? No, no, calm down, she might just be curious about you. Might just want to learn who the weirdo is, before ditching him to go back to her friends. Not everything has to have a hidden motive (except when it does—).

He blinked, still staring at her, as he considered his options. It’s not like he had never smoked before. He had, on a few occasions, gotten hold of a pack or two. They stank and tasted awful, but nicotine was nicotine, and healthy lungs be damned, they did calm him down somewhat.

Unfortunately, they were also surprisingly expensive. He’d only stopped when his meagre savings ran dry, and he couldn’t afford them anymore.

”...Tank you,” he mumbled, inwardly cringing at how even those two simple words sounded harsh and stilted. He picked a smoke out of the pack without looking, and placed the filter between his teeth with ease. ”I need a lacterr,” he pointed out, hand stretched open, waiting for the girl to hand over her lighter.

He kept staring, even while waiting, his eyes only occasionally flitting to the teeming crowds a small ways away. She was doing the same to him, only more subtly. He could both see and feel her own gaze, mixed with the hundreds of other pairs of eyes that would glance their way, most accidental, some perhaps intentional. What she was looking for in him, he didn’t know. He didn’t like not knowing. Probably, she was looking for the same thing everyone else was, a weakness, a proof of something wrong with him, something she could take advantage of—

No, no, no! Calm the hell down. The skies were clear outside, he saw them, and yet you’d think they were choked with clouds with how un-clear his mind was right now. He came here to meet people, and here someone was, meeting him. It could even be nice. He could play the social game, at least a little bit. Of course, he’d keep an eye on everyone, couldn’t let his guard down too much, that’s just good sense, but he could, like, introduce himself. Like a normal person.

”My name iz Camille.” See? That was easy. He even remembered to smile a little bit. ”How arre you call-ed?”

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

September 7th, a few hours before all of Hell broke loose
Warehouse
Interactions: None

---

This was a bad idea. A very very very bad idea. Why did he even come? It’s not like he wanted to come. It’s not like he was even really invited in the first place, he just knew about the party because, well, everyone knew about it. Going off from the noise coming from the front doors, it’s not like anyone would notice him slipping in. Or would they notice? Would they notice the intruder? Would they spy his difference from the corner of their drunken eyes? Would they stare? Scorn him for it? Hide it behind sickly sweet cardboard smiles? They would, wouldn’t they. People always noticed.

His mother wouldn’t notice him gone, though. She never noticed, unless when she wants to. But this night she won’t notice him gone. Or if she does, she won’t care. She never cares. He could never come home and she wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t have to see her. If things go wrong he could just leave the party and spend the night at the park or near that 24h convenience store or—





—What was he thinking about…?

Dammit, his thoughts vanished again. He hates when that happens. Camille glanced over to the warehouse doors. He was probably thinking about the party. And how many people there was in there. His village was, what, 300 in population? 350 max? There must be at least a third that many, just in there. Probably more. And only people his age. Too many. Cornell is so big…

No, no, take a big breath. He came here for a reason. He came here because… because… because he can’t stay alone. It’s not good for him. His Papa would be sad to see him right now. He needs to… meet some people. He had friends back home. He could maybe have some friends here too? Or at least acquaintances. Or just… people he doesn’t feel like he needs to run away from. Just one person he can tolerate, that’s all he’s asking.

People are bad, but alone… alone like he is, is worse. When stuck between Scylla and Charybdis, you have to choose Scylla.

One last breath. Look up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight; that’s a good sign. Clear skies mean a clear mind. Steel yourself, remember when to smile, remember that you are strong, and… enter.

And immediately be hit by the sheer overwhelming atmosphere. The noise, the movement, the lights, the smell, the crowd. People were bumping into each other left and right, spilling drinks from those red plastic cups he’d have otherwise sworn were just a movie thing. People were climbing on chairs and shouting on the makeshift dance floor, and a strong smell of cannabis wafted from somewhere in the building.

Camille didn’t want to be there anymore. He wanted to run away, right now. But he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. So he did the next best thing and hightailed it for the bar, which was thankfully relatively empty.

Everybody must’ve already gotten their drinks.

He slipped through the crowd, quick and silent, keeping his hands shoved in his hoodie’s pocket, hiding his bruised knuckles. Get to the bar, grip the table-turned-bar-countertop a completely normal amount of hard, and grab the first can of whatever he recognizes. There. Budweiser. It’s shit, but it’ll do.

He looks normal. He looks like he belongs. No one is staring at him. He hasn’t seen anyone glance at him for more than to avoid bumping into him. He’s fine.

But try as he might to convince himself, he can feel it. The Gaze, burning a hole through his back. A drop of sweat rolls down the back of his neck. Someone is watching him. Someone has caught on to his charade. He can never catch them in the act, people have said it’s all in his mind, but he can feel them staring, a visceral, almost physical sensation.

He cracked open his can and took a shaky sip. Yup, tastes just as bad as he remembered. Still helps to settle his nerves though.

He found himself a spot on the room’s edge, where he had a wall at his back and a view of most of the crowd. He slowly sipped his beer, not too quickly since he hadn’t eaten dinner (again) and didn’t want to make himself sick, but enough to give himself something to do as he peoplewatched.

He watched the others dance, and talk, and laugh. He couldn’t pick out what people were saying, their words either too quick or too slurred or both for him to translate. The music was, well, he would be lying if he said he didn’t know any of it, a good chunk of the songs did occasionally play on the radio, so he’d heard them in passing a few times. But he didn’t really know it know it. American music was still a bit of a mystery to him, ignorant of music in general as he was. He didn’t especially like it, nor the way he could feel the bass resonate in his chest.

Maybe hoping to get out and talk to people was too much. Maybe just being there would have to be enough, would make his face a bit more familiar for when he’d start attending proper, real classes again. Maybe then he could start having something of a social life that wasn’t occasionally punching an asshole’s lights out in a back alley. Or his mother screaming at him.

Or maybe this whole thing would just put a bigger target on him. He could still feel the Gaze burning into him from somewhere unseen. Could feel how high strung it made him, how close to snapping his nerves were. Camille just… really hoped no one would talk to him. He wasn’t sure he’d survive an actual conversation.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

September 7th, the day the Party of Doom happened
Bach Household
Interactions: Vicky mentionned

---

Kersten hummed a tuneless song to herself as she took out the steaming pan out of the oven. She deftly stuck a toothpick in the center of the pan, and watched with satisfaction as it came back out slightly sticky. The brownies were ready. They only had to cool down for a bit, and then into the tupperwares they’d go.

They took the time to finish their preparations for the evening. Their flour-stained hoodie was switched to a nice, clean lumberjack-y flannel shirt, and they put on their favorite, floor length pleated skirt. It would spin nicely if they ever decided to give the dance floor a go.

He ran inventory one last time too, just to be sure everything was ready. The baggies of mids were packed and ready for distribution, and so was the anti-asshole oregano. His smallest bong was carefully padded and secured at the bottom of his backpack, and he had a few pre-rolled joints of premium bud in his pocket to smoke on the walk over to the warehouse, y’know, for pregaming and everything. And with his brownies soon to join the mix, he’d be set for one hell of an evening.

"Ma! Pa! I’m leaving!" Kersten called back into the house as she left through the front door. "Be back later, I’ll be taking a taxi home!"

---

Warehouse

---

The music was bumping, the people were cheering, the dance floor was especially vibrant with Lupe leading the pack, and the vibe was goddamn immaculate. Kersten took another hit as he looked around the Stoner Corner he and his best buddies had formed.

Her arrival had been met with cheers from a couple of her friends, and she got settled pretty quickly after that. Richie Smith pulled out a picnic blanket and two jumbo bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos (and after demolishing an entire pot brownie, was well on his way to finishing the first bag), and Sloane Powell showed off the massive fucking beanbag she’d dragged across half of town, the one she was now lounging on like she owned the entire place. People would phase in and out, to chill and pass around a joint or the bong, and a few braver ones would snack on a brownie. Sweet, white smoke filled their corner, clearly marking their position to anyone that couldn’t track them by the smell alone.

This was Kersten’s domain, and they were the Lord of its manor. Or something like that. The metaphor kinda got out of their hands there, sounded way more pretentious than it actually is. The point is, they controlled the weed, so they also controlled their corner's vibe, and they only wanted good ones. Every visitor would get a couple puffs and a brownie if they wanted to. The chill ones would leave with a baggie slipped into their sleeve or pocket. The rude and pushy ones would get a nice pasta sauce-flavored surprise when they’ll try to light up at home.

A small commotion had him briefly look over to the beer pong table, and huh. Looked like queen of the tryhards Vicky arguing with her beau. Chef had passed by their corner earlier, looking pretty stressed out. Or maybe just kinda sad. Either way, he’d taken his fill and left, and seeing how Vicky was now taking shots of curaçao straight from the bottle, Kersten had an inkling as to why he’d needed the extra courage.

Kersten grabbed another brownie and started gnawing on it. Kind of a shitty move to dump someone right in the middle of a party. Better avoid the bar for now.

Welp. That’s not any of their problems. They’ve got green goodness to distribute. But first, a small pit stop on the dance floor. They finished their brownie, got up from where they’d been lounging, stretched a bit, and wandered over to the packed dance circle, hips swaying to the beat. "Make some space for me too, guys!" they called out cheerily as they made their way in.

Once she was done mingling with the dancing crowd, maybe she could convince Richie to go fool around with her in the bathrooms…

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

Kersten Bach

"Whoah. Is that shit really happening, or am I higher than I thought?"

_______________________________________________ Kersten "Kushten" Johanna Bach the 5th Any/all (CS defaults to they/them for clarity) | 17 | American (of German descent) | 6'1'' | 160 lbs _______________________________________________ Languid _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "Want a muffin? I promise it's a normal one this time." ___________________________________ [+] Horticulture ⫻ Kersten grows their own weed and tobacco, but also some genuinely very lovely petunias and rose bushes, and a whole host of aromatic herbs. If you want to get your garden, or greenhouse, into order, just ask them. Home chemistry ⫻ Turns out learning how to make your own THC extract (and how to properly use it) teaches you a lot about chemistry. They've even started making some perfume extracts from their own flowers, just for fun. It's also pretty handy when making baked goods, whether they're edibles or just ordinary cookies. Sky-high ⫻ Kersten has developed an incredibly high tolerance to both nicotine and THC, to the point they don't seem to realize that their normal, light and pleasant high is most other people's Instant Bad Trip. They're the only known person to have survived their patented "Forever Weed Brownie" unscathed. Some people have even theorized that their body has found a way to metabolize weed straight into energy...

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Oh shit, is my shirt stained? I swear I just washed it yesterday, too..." Kersten is a tall, spindly youth, with short, light brown hair and green eyes. Their skin is a bit tanned from sun exposure, and their hands and nails are rough from an abundance of yard work. Their face has lost most of its feminine softness in the last 2 years, and their voice has almost entirely stopped cracking whenever they speak. They've even begun to grow a bit of facial hair, and need to shave from time to time. They dress casually, usually in layers of loose-fitting, sturdy clothing, both to hide their breasts and because it's ideal for gardening. Speaking of gardening, their clothes are often dirt-stained, despite their best effort to keep them clean. They wear some kind of hat whenever possible, be it a baseball cap, a beanie, or even, in some rare occasions, a beret. Despite their masculine appearance, they'll sometimes bust out a skirt and tights or other pieces of more feminine clothing; they still look good in them, so it'd be a shame to let them rot at the back of their closet.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Like, dude, you gotta let people live their lives, you feel me?"

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Kersten just wants to have a good time. Why rush through life? There's a lot to enjoy in the here-and-now, even in Cornwell. They've got their greenhouse and their plants to take care of, they've got weed to have some fun, and tobacco whenever they want a different kind of buzz, and plenty of friends to hang out with. So the whole town getting swallowed by the Pit is really a huge bummer, in their opinion. They'd really like it to kinda stop doing that.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ You got to be good to one another. Live and let live, make love, not war, sharing is caring, free love, and all that jazz. In the end, we're all humans sharing the same planet, so why fight? We should put all those resources and energy into helping those in need, instead. Kersten is a big proponent for free love and universal understanding between people, and has a deep hatred for any form of discrimination or oppression. And the cops, of course. People call them a hippie for it (and the drugs) and all they can answer is; well, the hippies were right about all that stuff, no?

SECRETS ⫻ Well, it's not really a secret that they grow their own weed (and even less so that they smoke it) but it's still very illegal, so they made sure to keep it hidden from the relevant authorities. They've even got a whole emergency plan set-up to destroy and hide any remains of their weed plants should the police ever get their hands on a search warrant.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Gender's, like, a completely made up thing, you feel? Guys and gals are all just people in the end. If someone's your type, then it doesn't matter what they are.

FEARS ⫻ They're not usually the kind to fret about much, but sometimes they worry that their friends only really hang out with them because of what they can give them (mostly weed) and not because of who they are as a person. And other times they worry about their future, and wonder if they'll be able to find a decent job in today's economy.

REPUTATION IN CORNELL ⫻ Kersten is a nice kid, but they don't seem to have much of a future. People their age generally like them for their laid-back personality and endless supply of weed they hand out for free (though never the really good stuff, they keep that for themselves). There's a reason people call them "Kushten" after all. Better stay clear of their edibles though, you never know how strong those are gonna be.

Adults are a bit more mixed. Some think they're a fine enough kid, others also get their weed from them, and old ladies often end up chatting begonias with them. But most look at them with pity. To these people, Kersten seems to be headed right for a very mediocre life of living in their parent's basement. A select few view them with a lot more animosity: being openly queer tends to attract the attention of a few assholes.

FLAWS ⫻ Kersten has a problem with taking things seriously, and lacks any kind of long-term goals or plans. They can come across as flippant, and they're often too stuck in the present to really plan anything very far ahead. They've been fine just kind of coasting by, up until now, but adult life and responsibilities are going to be a rude awakening. Their drug use is also becoming kind of problematic; they haven't been sober for over 48 hours in well over a year, and that can't be healthy.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"It's, like, better to let the past stay in the past, buddy. The now is allllll there is."

Kersten Johanna Bach, fifth of their name, was born on a beautiful autumn day at the Cornwell General Hospital. As their family's first, and only, child, they were named after their father, Kersten Johanna Bach the 4th, as has been the Bach family tradition for the past 5 generations.

Their father was born and raised in California, where he spent most of his life. He went to college for accounting, where he began hanging out with the counterculture college kids, and experimenting with drugs. It was there he met Kersten's mother, a fellow business student, and though the beginning of their relationship was rocky, they soon fell in love, and got married a few years later. Kersten's mother wanted to move back to her hometown, Cornwell, and their father gladly followed, bringing a few of his "habits" with him.

Kersten was raised in a very liberal household. Their father, not wanting to be a bad example but also not wanting his kid to go behind his back for drugs, was open about his own occasional drug use as well as the risks associated with it. He was very much a "I'd rather you get it from me than a rando on the street" kind of parent. Their mother, in turn, was firm in teaching her child the importance of kindness and equality.

At 12, Kersten began to get really into gardening and horticulture. Their father was already pretty handy in the garden, and they had a small greenhouse, where he grew a few pot plants. But they quickly surpassed even him in skill and passion, and in a few years the backyard would be filled by dozens of potted flowers and bushes of ornamental plants. Kerten's greatest pride was, and still is, the meticulously maintained white tea rose bush on the front yard.

At 14, they discovered an interest in both not being a girl anymore, and trying out that weed stuff they heard so much about. This... did not come as much of a surprise to their parents, who had long spotted the signs. True to his word, Kersten Sr. let his child try out weed in a safe and controlled environment, while his wife made sure no one would dare hurt her vulnerable child during their transition. And luckily for Kersten, they managed to avoid all the kerfuffle that comes with legally changing one's name; having a unisex name is handy like that!

At 16, they had practically taken over the greenhouse out back, and were growing their own cannabis and tobacco, just like their father used to do before them. And now that they're 17, they're well known amongst their peers as the source of some of the cleanest and freshest weed around town. And even if it's not the best bits of the plant, hell, they give it out for free! So no one really complains.

This has made them very popular with a certain crowd, and relatively well-known, or at least tolerated, by most other highschoolers. They might be a dork, but they're also the dork with all the free weed, so better not shove them into the lockers too much, you know?

The warehouse party is just one of the many similar party they've gotten used to attending. They've got baggies of the mid-tier stuff to hand out to friends, some of homegrown oregano to hand out to those that piss them off, and a big pan of not-too-strong brownies to share. It's going to be a gooood night...

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Don't you worry my friend! I've got something that can help you."

TYPE ⫻ Agent

ABSTRACTION ⫻ The A-maize-ing Bong on the Cob (or simply the Corn Pipe if you hate fun)

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ A tacky corn-shaped novelty glass bong. When reality in Cornwell fractured, it slipped through the cracks from another world, right into Kersten's lap. Its shape changes between wielders to better fit them, but it always remains a tool for consuming herbs.

The Corn Pipe is an artifact rich in green and orange lux that gives its wielder the ability to channel the powers of various herbs and plants, whether through amplifying pre-existing medicinal properties, or by making substantial their symbolic meanings (i.e. a plant symbolizing strength could make someone physically stronger or tougher). The plant's properties will take effect when their smoke, which the Corn Pipe produces in much greater quantity than is normal, is inhaled; it doesn't have to be from first-hand smoke, either. It also gives its wielder the ability to identify any naturally occurring plant in their reality, and to instinctively sense the general meaning ascribed to a plant, though not necessarily the exact effect that will be produced when smoked. The wielder is naturally resistant to the Pipe's smoke, but not immune.

Currently known herbal mixtures with interesting and useful effects are; dried poppies or chamomile for a soporific smoke; a mix of thistle and amaranth for greater physical resilience; fennel and oak leaves for increased physical strength; echinacea and/or sage for healing injuries; feverfew and yarrow to treat fevers and lessen pain; snapdragons for a confusion and illusion-inducing smoke; eyebright and St. John's worth to calm and clear one's mind; cypress and wormwood for a depressogen smoke; trillium to induce a brief bout of bisexuality; and cannabis for getting high. Poisonous plants could be used for offensive purposes... but the risk of poisoning themselves along the way has deterred Kersten from trying it out.

Kersten tried using the leftover magic bong water to water one of their houseplants once, out of curiosity. Turns out it greatly stimulates plant growth due to trace amounts of green lux. Neat, if not especially useful.

LIMITS ⫻ Using most the Corn Pipe's powers requires physically smoking the herbs with it acting as a channeler. That means packing the bowl, lighting it, and pulling a good lungful. This both takes time, making switching herbs in a hurry difficult, and means needing to have both the herbs and the Pipe on hand. It's thus most effective when Kersten has had some prep time.

Using it also means physically breathing in the smoke somehow. Should Kersten wish to use its powers against a monster, they'd either have to somehow trick it into taking a hit, or take a hit themselves to breathe out a large cloud of second hand smoke on them, which would also leave them vulnerable to the smoke's effect.

The smoke's effects are strong, but usually short-lived. For exemple, a normal human inhaling poppy smoke would fall dead asleep in less than a minute, but would wake up only a few minutes later. The same time frame applies to snapdragon-induced confusion. Enhancing one's might will last for an hour or two at most, and the enhancements themselves will not make someone supernaturally strong or protect them from deathly blows. Healing smoke will heal you very quickly, but continuous hits are needed for anything worse than just scratches. Only yarrow seems to have truly long-lasting effects.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ Kersten’s Abstraction relies heavily on preparation and physical interaction, rendering it slow and cumbersome in sudden or chaotic situations. Using the Corn Pipe involves packing the bowl, lighting it, and inhaling a substantial amount of smoke, which takes time and leaves Kersten vulnerable during the process ritual.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Just finished a batch of my classic 'Forever Weed Brownies'. Wanna try one?"

- Kersten is transmasculine, and has been taking testosterone for a good 2 years. They're very happy with the changes.
- Kersten's "Forever Weed Brownies" are strong even for them. Everyone else that tried them have been sent into the throes of a way too intense paranoid high and/or drug-induced catatonia for hours on end.
- The nickname "Kushten" started off as derogatory, but Kersten liked it so much that now even their friends call them that.

The A-maize-ing Bong on the Cob

THE.CORN PIPE
| Herbal Power | "Human belief and nature, channeled as one..... .....Yes, I know it looks stupid. I didn't choose its form. You'll just have to deal with it." ORIGINS & CREATIONS: | In every reality, and since time immemorial, flowers, plants and herbs have been ascribed various symbolic meanings, and properties both medicinal and magical in nature. Centuries upon centuries of belief and traditions of smoking and drinking plant extracts have manifested in an artifact capable of harnessing these very beliefs through those very practices. | TYPE: | Magic Bong | LOCATION: | Cornwell, PA., in the possession of Kersten Bach the 5th. | NOTABLE OWNERS: | Kersten Bach, a high school stoner who used its powers to survive when their city began sinking into the Pit. | ABSTRACTION-GRANTING: | Yes | .............................................................................	Humanity has a habit of looking for meaning in the natural world. Sometimes, this is done by inventing stories to explain how such or such thing came to be. Other times, it is done by saying this herb heals that ailment, or that plant has this special magical power. And it can even evolve in its own entire cryptological language, where this flower symbolizes that concept, or that color represents this feeling. Yes, flower language and traditional medicine is old. Very old. Centuries old, in fact, and present in many, many different worlds. This much concentrated belief is a powerful thing, and when coupled with herbal consumption techniques, like smoking, burning or steeping, that are just as old and just as widespread, things happen. That is how the artifact that would be known as the Corn Pipe, or the A-maize-ing Bong on the Cob to one specific wielder, was born. Through it resonated the accumulated belief of humanity, as well as both green and orange lux, ready to reach out and realise the potential of these herbs. Should someone not yet bearing an abstraction link with the Corn Pipe, it will change shape to better fit them, and they will be granted access to that well of potential. Plants smoked with the Pipe will create large quantities of smoke with various effects depending on their medicinal properties or meaning in floriography. For example, smoking dried poppy petals will create a soporific smoke, medicinal plants like yarrow can heal ailments, and plants that symbolize sorrow can cause sadness and depression. The smoke, whether first or second-hand, is the vessel through which each plant's potential is carried, and must usually be inhaled for it to take effect. The wielder is granted a certain resistance to the smoke, but is not immune. The wielder also gains the ability to identify plants on sight, and an innate, though sometimes vague, knowledge of plant symbolism. Leftover ashes or water from using the pipe contains traces of green lux, and stimulate plant growth if used as a fertilizer. It can also be used as an ordinary bong.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

Second character is done, lemme know if anything needs adjusting!

Kersten Bach

"Whoah. Is that shit really happening, or am I higher than I thought?"

_______________________________________________ Kersten "Kushten" Johanna Bach the 5th Any/all (CS defaults to they/them for clarity) | 17 | American (of German descent) | 6'1'' | 160 lbs _______________________________________________ Languid _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "Want a muffin? I promise it's a normal one this time." ___________________________________ [+] Horticulture ⫻ Kersten grows their own weed and tobacco, but also some genuinely very lovely petunias and rose bushes, and a whole host of aromatic herbs. If you want to get your garden, or greenhouse, into order, just ask them. Home chemistry ⫻ Turns out learning how to make your own THC extract (and how to properly use it) teaches you a lot about chemistry. They've even started making some perfume extracts from their own flowers, just for fun. It's also pretty handy when making baked goods, whether they're edibles or just ordinary cookies. Sky-high ⫻ Kersten has developed an incredibly high tolerance to both nicotine and THC, to the point they don't seem to realize that their normal, light and pleasant high is most other people's Instant Bad Trip. They're the only known person to have survived their patented "Forever Weed Brownie" unscathed. Some people have even theorized that their body has found a way to metabolize weed straight into energy...

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Oh shit, is my shirt stained? I swear I just washed it yesterday, too..." Kersten is a tall, spindly youth, with short, light brown hair and green eyes. Their skin is a bit tanned from sun exposure, and their hands and nails are rough from an abundance of yard work. Their face has lost most of its feminine softness in the last 2 years, and their voice has almost entirely stopped cracking whenever they speak. They've even begun to grow a bit of facial hair, and need to shave from time to time. They dress casually, usually in layers of loose-fitting, sturdy clothing, both to hide their breasts and because it's ideal for gardening. Speaking of gardening, their clothes are often dirt-stained, despite their best effort to keep them clean. They wear some kind of hat whenever possible, be it a baseball cap, a beanie, or even, in some rare occasions, a beret. Despite their masculine appearance, they'll sometimes bust out a skirt and tights or other pieces of more feminine clothing; they still look good in them, so it'd be a shame to let them rot at the back of their closet.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Like, dude, you gotta let people live their lives, you feel me?"

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Kersten just wants to have a good time. Why rush through life? There's a lot to enjoy in the here-and-now, even in Cornwell. They've got their greenhouse and their plants to take care of, they've got weed to have some fun, and tobacco whenever they want a different kind of buzz, and plenty of friends to hang out with. So the whole town getting swallowed by the Pit is really a huge bummer, in their opinion. They'd really like it to kinda stop doing that.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ You got to be good to one another. Live and let live, make love, not war, sharing is caring, free love, and all that jazz. In the end, we're all humans sharing the same planet, so why fight? We should put all those resources and energy into helping those in need, instead. Kersten is a big proponent for free love and universal understanding between people, and has a deep hatred for any form of discrimination or oppression. And the cops, of course. People call them a hippie for it (and the drugs) and all they can answer is; well, the hippies were right about all that stuff, no?

SECRETS ⫻ Well, it's not really a secret that they grow their own weed (and even less so that they smoke it) but it's still very illegal, so they made sure to keep it hidden from the relevant authorities. They've even got a whole emergency plan set-up to destroy and hide any remains of their weed plants should the police ever get their hands on a search warrant.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Gender's, like, a completely made up thing, you feel? Guys and gals are all just people in the end. If someone's your type, then it doesn't matter what they are.

FEARS ⫻ They're not usually the kind to fret about much, but sometimes they worry that their friends only really hang out with them because of what they can give them (mostly weed) and not because of who they are as a person. And other times they worry about their future, and wonder if they'll be able to find a decent job in today's economy.

REPUTATION IN CORNELL ⫻ Kersten is a nice kid, but they don't seem to have much of a future. People their age generally like them for their laid-back personality and endless supply of weed they hand out for free (though never the really good stuff, they keep that for themselves). There's a reason people call them "Kushten" after all. Better stay clear of their edibles though, you never know how strong those are gonna be.

Adults are a bit more mixed. Some think they're a fine enough kid, others also get their weed from them, and old ladies often end up chatting begonias with them. But most look at them with pity. To these people, Kersten seems to be headed right for a very mediocre life of living in their parent's basement. A select few view them with a lot more animosity: being openly queer tends to attract the attention of a few assholes.

FLAWS ⫻ Kersten has a problem with taking things seriously, and lacks any kind of long-term goals or plans. They can come across as flippant, and they're often too stuck in the present to really plan anything very far ahead. They've been fine just kind of coasting by, up until now, but adult life and responsibilities are going to be a rude awakening. Their drug use is also becoming kind of problematic; they haven't been sober for over 48 hours in well over a year, and that can't be healthy.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"It's, like, better to let the past stay in the past, buddy. The now is allllll there is."

Kersten Johanna Bach, fifth of their name, was born on a beautiful autumn day at the Cornwell General Hospital. As their family's first, and only, child, they were named after their father, Kersten Johanna Bach the 4th, as has been the Bach family tradition for the past 5 generations.

Their father was born and raised in California, where he spent most of his life. He went to college for accounting, where he began hanging out with the counterculture college kids, and experimenting with drugs. It was there he met Kersten's mother, a fellow business student, and though the beginning of their relationship was rocky, they soon fell in love, and got married a few years later. Kersten's mother wanted to move back to her hometown, Cornwell, and their father gladly followed, bringing a few of his "habits" with him.

Kersten was raised in a very liberal household. Their father, not wanting to be a bad example but also not wanting his kid to go behind his back for drugs, was open about his own occasional drug use as well as the risks associated with it. He was very much a "I'd rather you get it from me than a rando on the street" kind of parent. Their mother, in turn, was firm in teaching her child the importance of kindness and equality.

At 12, Kersten began to get really into gardening and horticulture. Their father was already pretty handy in the garden, and they had a small greenhouse, where he grew a few pot plants. But they quickly surpassed even him in skill and passion, and in a few years the backyard would be filled by dozens of potted flowers and bushes of ornamental plants. Kerten's greatest pride was, and still is, the meticulously maintained white tea rose bush on the front yard.

At 14, they discovered an interest in both not being a girl anymore, and trying out that weed stuff they heard so much about. This... did not come as much of a surprise to their parents, who had long spotted the signs. True to his word, Kersten Sr. let his child try out weed in a safe and controlled environment, while his wife made sure no one would dare hurt her vulnerable child during their transition. And luckily for Kersten, they managed to avoid all the kerfuffle that comes with legally changing one's name; having a unisex name is handy like that!

At 16, they had practically taken over the greenhouse out back, and were growing their own cannabis and tobacco, just like their father used to do before them. And now that they're 17, they're well known amongst their peers as the source of some of the cleanest and freshest weed around town. And even if it's not the best bits of the plant, hell, they give it out for free! So no one really complains.

This has made them very popular with a certain crowd, and relatively well-known, or at least tolerated, by most other highschoolers. They might be a dork, but they're also the dork with all the free weed, so better not shove them into the lockers too much, you know?

The warehouse party is just one of the many similar party they've gotten used to attending. They've got baggies of the mid-tier stuff to hand out to friends, some of homegrown oregano to hand out to those that piss them off, and a big pan of not-too-strong brownies to share. It's going to be a gooood night...

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Don't you worry my friend! I've got something that can help you."

TYPE ⫻ Agent

ABSTRACTION ⫻ The A-maize-ing Bong on the Cob (or simply the Corn Pipe if you hate fun)

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ A tacky corn-shaped novelty glass bong. When reality in Cornwell fractured, it slipped through the cracks from another world, right into Kersten's lap. Its shape changes between wielders to better fit them, but it always remains a tool for consuming herbs.

The Corn Pipe is an artifact rich in green and orange lux that gives its wielder the ability to channel the powers of various herbs and plants, whether through amplifying pre-existing medicinal properties, or by making substantial their symbolic meanings (i.e. a plant symbolizing strength could make someone physically stronger or tougher). The plant's properties will take effect when their smoke, which the Corn Pipe produces in much greater quantity than is normal, is inhaled; it doesn't have to be from first-hand smoke, either. It also gives its wielder the ability to identify any naturally occurring plant in their reality, and to instinctively sense the general meaning ascribed to a plant, though not necessarily the exact effect that will be produced when smoked. The wielder is naturally resistant to the Pipe's smoke, but not immune.

Currently known herbal mixtures with interesting and useful effects are; dried poppies or chamomile for a soporific smoke; a mix of thistle and amaranth for greater physical resilience; fennel and oak leaves for increased physical strength; echinacea and/or sage for healing injuries; feverfew and yarrow to treat fevers and lessen pain; snapdragons for a confusion and illusion-inducing smoke; eyebright and St. John's worth to calm and clear one's mind; cypress and wormwood for a depressogen smoke; trillium to induce a brief bout of bisexuality; and cannabis for getting high. Poisonous plants could be used for offensive purposes... but the risk of poisoning themselves along the way has deterred Kersten from trying it out.

Kersten tried using the leftover magic bong water to water one of their houseplants once, out of curiosity. Turns out it greatly stimulates plant growth due to trace amounts of green lux. Neat, if not especially useful.

LIMITS ⫻ Using most the Corn Pipe's powers requires physically smoking the herbs with it acting as a channeler. That means packing the bowl, lighting it, and pulling a good lungful. This both takes time, making switching herbs in a hurry difficult, and means needing to have both the herbs and the Pipe on hand. It's thus most effective when Kersten has had some prep time.

Using it also means physically breathing in the smoke somehow. Should Kersten wish to use its powers against a monster, they'd either have to somehow trick it into taking a hit, or take a hit themselves to breathe out a large cloud of second hand smoke on them, which would also leave them vulnerable to the smoke's effect.

The smoke's effects are strong, but usually short-lived. For exemple, a normal human inhaling poppy smoke would fall dead asleep in less than a minute, but would wake up only a few minutes later. The same time frame applies to snapdragon-induced confusion. Enhancing one's might will last for an hour or two at most, and the enhancements themselves will not make someone supernaturally strong or protect them from deathly blows. Healing smoke will heal you very quickly, but continuous hits are needed for anything worse than just scratches. Only yarrow seems to have truly long-lasting effects.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ Kersten’s Abstraction relies heavily on preparation and physical interaction, rendering it slow and cumbersome in sudden or chaotic situations. Using the Corn Pipe involves packing the bowl, lighting it, and inhaling a substantial amount of smoke, which takes time and leaves Kersten vulnerable during the process ritual.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Just finished a batch of my classic 'Forever Weed Brownies'. Wanna try one?"

- Kersten is transmasculine, and has been taking testosterone for a good 2 years. They're very happy with the changes.
- Kersten's "Forever Weed Brownies" are strong even for them. Everyone else that tried them have been sent into the throes of a way too intense paranoid high and/or drug-induced catatonia for hours on end.
- The nickname "Kushten" started off as derogatory, but Kersten liked it so much that now even their friends call them that.

The A-maize-ing Bong on the Cob

THE.CORN PIPE
| Herbal Power | "Human belief and nature, channeled as one..... .....Yes, I know it looks stupid. I didn't choose its form. You'll just have to deal with it." ORIGINS & CREATIONS: | In every reality, and since time immemorial, flowers, plants and herbs have been ascribed various symbolic meanings, and properties both medicinal and magical in nature. Centuries upon centuries of belief and traditions of smoking and drinking plant extracts have manifested in an artifact capable of harnessing these very beliefs through those very practices. | TYPE: | Magic Bong | LOCATION: | Cornwell, PA., in the possession of Kersten Bach the 5th. | NOTABLE OWNERS: | Kersten Bach, a high school stoner who used its powers to survive when their city began sinking into the Pit. | ABSTRACTION-GRANTING: | Yes | .............................................................................	Humanity has a habit of looking for meaning in the natural world. Sometimes, this is done by inventing stories to explain how such or such thing came to be. Other times, it is done by saying this herb heals that ailment, or that plant has this special magical power. And it can even evolve in its own entire cryptological language, where this flower symbolizes that concept, or that color represents this feeling. Yes, flower language and traditional medicine is old. Very old. Centuries old, in fact, and present in many, many different worlds. This much concentrated belief is a powerful thing, and when coupled with herbal consumption techniques, like smoking, burning or steeping, that are just as old and just as widespread, things happen. That is how the artifact that would be known as the Corn Pipe, or the A-maize-ing Bong on the Cob to one specific wielder, was born. Through it resonated the accumulated belief of humanity, as well as both green and orange lux, ready to reach out and realise the potential of these herbs. Should someone not yet bearing an abstraction link with the Corn Pipe, it will change shape to better fit them, and they will be granted access to that well of potential. Plants smoked with the Pipe will create large quantities of smoke with various effects depending on their medicinal properties or meaning in floriography. For example, smoking dried poppy petals will create a soporific smoke, medicinal plants like yarrow can heal ailments, and plants that symbolize sorrow can cause sadness and depression. The smoke, whether first or second-hand, is the vessel through which each plant's potential is carried, and must usually be inhaled for it to take effect. The wielder is granted a certain resistance to the smoke, but is not immune. The wielder also gains the ability to identify plants on sight, and an innate, though sometimes vague, knowledge of plant symbolism. Leftover ashes or water from using the pipe contains traces of green lux, and stimulate plant growth if used as a fertilizer. It can also be used as an ordinary bong.

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

Tolamu & Pulam

They were cursed. They had to be. Whether the Gods were unhappy with them, or they were besieged by evil spirits, they did not know, but it did not change the fact that the Great Fire no longer warmed them, or that the furnaces and campfires no longer warded off the night’s chill.

It was a cold like they had never known. Heat leached right out from their bones, leaving only shiver and gooseflesh behind. People tried buddling up, grass coats usually only worn during monsoon season to protect from rain worn at all times, beast pelts covering every bit of exposed skin. They ate more warm meals and drank more warm infusions than ever, the cooks working all day long to provide for everyone. But it was never enough, and whatever relief they provided was fleeting.

And then the first one collapsed, delirious, their skin flushed and drenched in sweat. A clear case of heat stroke. And people finally realized that whatever plagued them wasn’t a failure from the world, a failure from the concept of heat itself, but something malicious. Something that only sought to make them suffer.

It was a relief, in some small way. The cold could not harm them. But it also couldn’t be relieved. They would have to endure, for however long it would take. The children and infants took it the hardest; it was difficult to explain to them the cause of their suffering when even the most well-learned of adults could only guess at the real reason.

The priestess, Ma’otah, prayed day and night for the curse’s dissipation, for warmth to find them again. But nothing changed. The One That Lay Below offered plenty of coal in exchange for their prayers and offerings, but mundane fire could not ward off the supernatural chill. And the One that Stand Above, the Great Fire, did not respond at all to the myriads of food offerings burnt in its name…

Resentment brewed within the population, a grudge slowly forming. Who or what had caused this? What had they done to deserve it? Why couldn’t, or wouldn’t, the Gods help? They prayed, made offerings, gave their devotions, and yet they got nothing in exchange. An unfair trade. What good was worshipping a God that did nothing for them? At least one of them tried to help.

Life, despite everything, went on…

---

Tolamu had an issue. As the great cook that he was, his work was in high demand. No one could season a soup like him, which made sense, as he was the one to come up with the concept of seasoning in the first place. Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue. He would even be happy that his unrivaled skills were recognized as such!

Unfortunately, the demand was too high. No one was satisfied by grabbing a few pieces of cold fruit and meat for a quick lunch anymore. All of the cooks had their hands full trying to keep everyone’s bellies full with hot meals, trying, futilely, to keep them warm as well. And it turns out that when you’re busy making pot of soup after pot of soup all day, every day, you don’t really have time to keep innovating, no matter how much you wish that was the case.

He couldn’t keep looking for spices, or keep making food experiments. He was just stuck in front of the cooking fires, and occasionally tending to the partridge coops. His inner fire was sputtering, starved of new challenges. The boredom, the monotomy of it all, was killing him just as much as the persistent cold that had settled in everyone’s bones.

He wasn’t alone in this feeling. Caught in the same throes of mysterious chills like everyone else, Pulam found himself struggling to keep warm. Not even his passion for the arts was enough of a distraction. He kept himself busy, of course, but nothing beat the feeling of a hot bowl of soup in his palms. His stomach protested drinking yet more soup, but the rest of him cried in relief from the scant heat. Pulam settled on curling up where he sat on the community grounds, staring at the brilliant orange of his treasure.

One of Tolamu’s specials, this one – though its novelty was wearing out as of late. There was only so many times one could rotate through soup flavours before they all became recognisable. Pulam tilted his bowl round and round. Slosh slosh slosh, went the liquid. It was so watery. So fleeting. So easy to gulp down now, the way they used to gulp down water after a hard day’s work. Pulam thought of fresh paint dripping sluggishly down a surface when it wasn’t spread thin. Maybe if soup was thick too, it’d stick around longer and the warmth would be less fleeting.

Pulam huffed. Look at me, comparing soup with paint. The cold really is driving us all crazy.

He kept sloshing his soup. Puffs of heat rose from its vivid orange surface and immediately cooled on his skin.

...But Tolamu did burn water that one time. And that was before everyone got the chills.

The warmth on his palms was fading now.

Curse it.

Pulam rose to his feet still clutching at his bowl of soup and made his way to their food stores. The chefs would be busy with soup-making so he wouldn’t bother them with his bout of impulsiveness, but surely there was no harm in him adding an ingredient or two into his little bowl of soup! The absence of anyone in the stores emboldened Pulam and he placed his bowl on a free table, before setting about searching for their stocks of ground starch.

That's when Tolamu walked in. The old pot of soup was done, a new one was needed, and that meant more ingredients. He was so deeply set in the routine that he didn't even notice the intruder at first. He simply grabbed what he needed, some fresh waterleaf that was starting to wilt, a large yam, small strips of dried salted meat…

Pulam, who had successfully located the starch and was now staring at the chef in wild panic, did the only thing he could think to do: jam his hand straight down into the bag in front of him.

Only once he was about to leave did he really see Pulam, his hand wrist-deep in a starch bag. He paused, and frowned. ”Hey!” he yelled out, ”Hands off that stuff! Do you know how much work it is to make it?” He glanced at the bowl of soup on the table, and grumbled some more. ”And that's way too much for a tiny bowl like that, you're gonna end up with a lumpy mess of a meal…”

“Um,” said Pulam. He removed his hand from the bag, but forgot to open it before he did, and so found himself clutching a fistful of starch. The excess scattered back into the bag, thankfully. He didn’t feel like testing the patience of the person responsible for keeping them all warm at the moment.

“Lumpy would be bad, yes.” What are you saying, fool? “I mean, I wasn’t planning on taking more than a pinch! I just... thought that... thicker soup would be nicer?”

A rush of embarrassment flooded him, which was good because it brought a little warmth to his cheeks, but absolutely terrible because he was critiquing one of their chefs! The one handling all their soup!

“Not that the soup isn’t nice,” he babbled. “It’s great, fantastic even, but you know, it’s, uh, really temporary and I thought maybe if it went down a little slower, the warmth might stay a little longer, and, um, so, starch?”

Standing there with his fistful of starch, Pulam wanted to find the nearest river and throw himself into it.

Tolamu blinked a few times, his frown easing off. He looked down at the ingredients in his hands, deep in thought, then looked back at Pulam. “That's… not an awful idea, actually,“ he mused. “If we can make it feel more filling, like a sauce-soup hybrid maybe… yeah… Yeah!”

He pointed a finger at Pulam, a determined grin on his face. ”Put that starch back in the bag, then bring the whole thing. We're testing your theory right now.” He turned around and marched right out the food soor and towards his cooking fire, not bothering to check if the other would follow.

Bemused, Pulam shook the starch out of his hand (and clapped it a few times to be thorough). Then he grabbed the neck of the bag and hefted it over his shoulder, before trailing after Tolamu at a slower pace.

The smell of fresh, boiling soup invaded his senses as they closed into the cooking fire. As full as he was, Pulam’s mouth couldn’t help but water still. He set the bag down, trying to distract himself as he watched Tolamu putter around.

Tolamu went to work. He grabbed a nearby jug of water and topped off the nearly empty soup pot, and while the pot worked its way back to boiling, he grabbed his bronze cooking knife and began to peel his yam. Soon, the vegetables were roughly diced and the salted meat strips shredded, and everything was dumped into the pot of soup to simmer for a bit.

Now that he had a moment to breathe, the cook turned back towards Pulam. ”Now let me show you how to properly thicken a broth.”

He grabbed the starch bag with one hand, and took a small empty serving bowl with the other. ”First, you don’t need a lot,” he stated, tone becoming didactic. “It thickens very quickly with heat, so only a spoonful or two is enough for a whole pot. Add too much, and you won’t end up with a liquid.” He poured about that amount in the bowl. ”Second, you don’t pour it right into your pot, or it’ll cook into lumps. You gotta mix it in cool water first, and then add it in.”

Pulam, watching intently, nodded.

He poured some water into the bowl, mixed it all up with a spoon, and then went to the soup pot and poured it in slowly, mixing all the while. Gradually, the soup broth, once thin and watery, began thickening up, until it began to lightly coat the ladle whenever it was raised. He raised it to his mouth, giving the broth a quick taste. The texture was odd… but not unpleasant. The flavor was a bit bland though. He’d have to fix that.

Tolamu turned to Pulam, a proud smile on his face. “See? Pretty neat, yeah? Cooking is just as much of an art as anything, with its own special skills and techniques!” He put the lid on the pot to let the vegetables finish cooking, and sat down on the ground next to the fire. “You can do a lot more with starch too. It basically becomes edible glue as soon as you wet it. I even tried cooking the starch paste alone in a pan, once. It makes something thin and crunchy, but not very filling, so I never really bothered showing others. It’s not worth the starch it requires.”

”So many more foods like it out there to be discovered…” he mused dreamily, ”...and instead of going out to find them, I’m stuck here freezing my ass off. The gods really have a shit sense of humor.” His face quickly twisted in a frown, and he threw a resentful glare at the sky.

Pulam, at this point, wasn’t really listening. He had his gaze fixed on the now empty serving bowl, fingers tapping his chin in thought. The soup bubbled away, but with less frivolity now that it had been thickened. It was a different colour from the soup they had doled out that morning – a pale white, broken up by the bits of vegetables and meat floating within.

“Edible glue...”

Inspiration struck.

“I’ll be right back!” he said, before darting back to the food stores they’d left. His bowl of soup was right where he’d left it, still somewhat warm.

“You,” he said, “are going to be a bit better to look at, my friend.”

The bowl did not reply. He returned to the cooking pot, set his bowl aside, grabbed a new serving bowl, and then poured a ladleful of thickened soup into it, sans meat and vegetables. With the empty serving bowl, Pulam copied what Tolamu had done minutes ago with the starch and water mixture, but at a smaller quantity. He poured this into his own bowl and then mixed that together.

At this point, he realised he should probably explain what he was doing.

“I had an idea,” he said, and started spooning the thickened new soup into his old soup. Except he wasn’t spooning it so much as he was drizzling it into his soup, letting the white bleed into the red of his old soup. A white circle came to be, then two dots and a sideways curve, and before long, a smiley face was looking up at him from his own soup. The white soup didn’t dissipate or stray from the initial shape it had taken once poured into the red soup. Curious, he jabbed the spoon into the corner of each ‘eye’ in the face he had drawn. The white soup swooped into the direction he cut in but didn’t move much more than that.

Pulam grinned.

“Tolamu, you’re a genius.” He lifted his bowl and showed his handiwork to the chef. It was crude, but it worked; if the thickened soup could retain its shape when poured into other soup, then that meant Pulam had a whole new canvas to play with! “Look! I don’t know what we can do about gods, but with soup like this, everyone will cheer up! Well... for a while. But it’s something, you know?”

Tolamu puffed his chest out a bit at Pulam's praise. He knew he was a genius, but it was always nice to hear others acknowledge it as well. Though, he had to admit Pulam was a master of his craft in his own right. Drawing with food… that wasn't something the cook had ever envisioned before. It was a good idea.

He smiled as he gazed at the bowl of soup. The little doodle floating around the broth was awfully charming. ”You're right,” he said, ”that ought to lighten the mood. I have a feeling that the children are going to be especially fond of it.”

He stood back up with a small groan. He had some more preparations to do before the next meal-time. ”Stay around and give me a hand, will you?” he asked Pulam. ”You have to show everyone your new food-drawings, after all.”

It was a good note to end his breakfast upon. With that, Pulam decided there was no real need to mention the talking... bird-head... monkey thing that was watching them both from atop the roof of the nearby food store. It was bad enough that everyone was slowly losing their minds from the constant chills; they didn’t need confirmation that someone had actually lost his mind as of late.

So, with good cheer and a wide smile, Pulam said, “Of course!”

Summary

The people of Ma'otah’s village are suffering under Liuthe's curse. Though they are not sure of its exact origin, resentment still builds against the gods, who either refuse or are unable to help, especially towards the Great Fire who doesn't seem to do anything to help despite the prayers. Worship is increasingly seen as a transactional relationship that should be left aside if nothing is given in return.

At the same time, Tolamu and Pulam meet in the food stores when Pulam wished to try and experiment with his soup. Tolamu helps him with it, and they end up creating a very thick soup that Pulam uses to create edible drawings. Food art has been born.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

Camille Tremblay

"What do you look at me for, huh?!"

_______________________________________________ Camille Tremblay He/him | 16 | French-Canadian (Acadian) | 5'6'' | 110 lbs _______________________________________________ Fear _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "You think how I speak is funny? I will make you regret it." ___________________________________ [+] French ⫻ French is Camille's first language, and he can speak, read and write it fluently. His English is a lot clumsier... Fisticuffs ⫻ Camille can and will kick your ass if you piss him off. Or if you scare him. Kinda hard to tell between the 2 with him. Worryingly high pain tolerance ⫻ Camille has learned to power through pain over the years. Bruises and broken bones don't bother him nearly has much as they should. Literature knowledge ⫻ Well-versed in classical and French literature.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Do not fucking look at me." Camille is pale, too pale for it to look healthy. He looks skin and bones, too, as if he doesn't quite eat enough. Despite this, and his shorter height, he's surprisingly strong. His hair is long and a bit unkempt, and he's clearly not gotten them cut in a long time. His eyes perpetually dart around, and his gaze is both deeply exhausted and filled with a wild, almost manic gleam. He's often sporting bruises both from fights and general clumsiness. His clothes are cheap and visibly old, as well as occasionally stained, but never truly damaged. He's always dressed in a variety of plain t-shirts, old discoloured sweaters, and scuffed jeans. He looks a lot like his mother. He hates it. He also hates being looked at too much. He tries not to think about it.

_{Psychology
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"So what if I get always angry. I am not scared when I am angry. It is better like that."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Above all, Camille wants to feel safe. There's always someone, somewhere. Watching him. Wishing him harm. Planning things. He can't take it, can't take being afraid all of the time. He keeps himself from harm however he can, but he's never safe. Never will be, in this town where he doesn't belong.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ You can't trust anyone. Camille doesn't fit in. He knows it. Everyone knows it. And that means that everyone can and will hurt him for it. They stare, they talk behind his back, blame him for things outside his control, and even his own mother... when in this situation, you have to fight back. You have to be able to rely on yourself, and only yourself. You have to get loud and angry, shatter that which threatens you, and show them all that they won't be able to hurt you without being hurt in return.

SECRETS ⫻ Camille hides a lot from people. But most of all, he hides just how afraid he always is, masking it by raging and lashing out. He hides just how scared and resentful he is of his own mother, hides how much her neglect has hurt him, for fear that would make him an even bigger target. And while deep down he knows that his paranoia is irrational, that while some people have hurt him, not everyone will, and that he desperately needs help to get better, he hides that too. Even from himself.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Camille has viciously repressed any kind of attraction he could have felt towards others.

FEARS ⫻ Camille is afraid of a lot of things. He's constantly anxious, mind conjuring up worst case scenarios. But most of all, he's afraid of other people, and especially of his mother.

REPUTATION IN CORNELL ⫻ Camille is an outcast. He's new to the town, and oddity in and of itself, with a heavy accent and clumsy English. He's the one that gets into fights, that yells at people, that always seem to be alone. The one with bruised knuckles and a black eye that distracts from his threadbare clothing and abnormal thinness. He's trouble, pure and simple, and people usually just try to ignore him.

FLAWS ⫻ His paranoia and anger issues understandably tend to drive other people away, and he's very adverse at seeking help for anything. This is partly by design, but these attempts at keeping himself safe is what's stopping him from creating bonds that could actually help him out of his situation.

_{Backstory
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"This is not my home. My home is right next to the ocean. This will never be my home..."

Camille was born and raised in the Magdalen Islands, in Canada. His father was Acadian, and his mother is American. They had met while she was on a work trip, and as his father used to say, it was love at first sight. They kept in contact for a few years, and eventually, his mother accepted to move in with him to his hometown and learn the language. They got married soon after, and a baby shortly followed. And so Camille was born, and then raised in a French-speaking household, in a tiny touristic village, with his only knowledge of English coming from school, and some help from his mother for homework.

Life was good. His father was a warm and affectionate man, and gave everything for his family. Despite being something of an anxious boy, Camille managed to make a few close friends over the years. His mother struggled slightly with adapting to her new home, but she did her best. Their village was small, barely a few hundred people, but it was tightly knit together. And the view on the Atlantic was to die for. It was all the young boy could ever ask for.

That changed when he was 12. His father was a tour guide, and during a tour, got into a boat accident. He was brought to the hospital, but after weeks of fighting for his life, he unfortunately passed away. Grief shattered what was left of their family. Their community was very small, a few hundred people only, and so people started talking. His mother tried to keep on, but could not stand to remain in the village and be pitied by her neighbours.

She threw herself into work more and more, beginning to neglect her son, or yelling angrily about her woes whenever he was around, sometimes even vocally blaming him for her life going off the rails. When Camille turned 14, she had enough, and left with her son back to her own hometown, Cornwell. He was forced to cut contact with his friends and what little family he had on his father's side, and all he was left from his village with was a tiny souvenir keychain he had managed to hide in his luggage.

Camille... did not enjoy being separated from all he ever knew to be thrust into a city whose language and culture he did not understand. This only aggravated the conflicts between him and his mother.

They have been living in Cornwell for 2 years now. His mother works in a dead-end job she hates, but pays enough for bills and food. Camille is isolated from his peers, both from being homeschooled for the first year so that he could get good enough at English to attend public school, and from the general difficulties that come with immigrating somewhere. Resentment keeps building in his home life, with his mother barely paying attention to him unless it's to scream at him about something. She fully refuses to even speak to him in French anymore. All the while, he himself has been growing more and more paranoid and isolated over time.

Instead of having to stay around other people, he spends as much time as he can alone in the woods. He goes home as late as he possibly can without prompting his mother into a screaming match. He skips meals whenever his mother actually bothers to cook for more than just herself, just so that he doesn't have to stay around her more than he needs to. he gets to class at the last minute, and leaves as soon as he can. He doesn't even really go online for more than research; he doesn't trust the people there either.

He hates this town. Hates how big it is compared to his village. Hate how dead it is in comparison. There was a dullness in Cornwell, one he's not used to. Such a populous place should not feel like a ghost town, or a pond of starving piranhas...

He tried to reach out exactly once. A party he'd heard of. Most likely an excuse to get drunk, but he wouldn't say no to that as well. Maybe he could find someone there, someone that he wouldn't have to be afraid of. He would go, he would try.

And then the Pit opened. And then Cornwell wasn't so dull anymore. And then he started being able to break more than just things, or people's jaws.

He's terrified of what's happening. Of not being able to leave anymore. Of the monsters. Of himself, and others with powers. But he doesn't have a choice. He has to survive, and if that means having to trust someone else sometimes, then he'll just have to swallow a scream and do it.

_{Abstraction
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"I will shatter everything."

TYPE ⫻ Adept

ABSTRACTION ⫻ Red and Purple Lux. Channeler is a lobster-shaped souvenir keychain from Camille's hometown.

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ Camille's affinity lies in lashing out and shattering the fragile parts of reality, whether it be glass or space itself. It comes to him easy; he's used to breaking stuff and having to work around with the remaining shards. He's still more like to punch you in the face than cast a spell on you, though his new magic makes it much easier for him to do so.

Glass Manipulation (Red) ⫻ Can manipulate, move around and throw glass in a 5 meters radius, as well as remotely shatter lager panes of glass. Glass that leaves his range is no longer under his control, but does not lose its momentum. Shards under his control can reach a maximum velocity of around 10 km/h.

Portal Creation (Purple) ⫻ With a strike, can shatter through space like glass to create portals linking two nearby locations together. Anything coming in from one end will come out the other as if no space separated the 2 endpoints. Camille can also move around the openings after creation.

Through the Looking Glass (Mixed) ⫻ Can create long-distance portals by anchoring each endpoint in a pre-existing mirror. The mirrors will still function and look like ordinary mirrors, but will also be linked. Camille will be able to pass objects through or even fully traverse himself.

LIMITS ⫻ Most of Camille's abilities revolve around shattering things and manipulating sharp objects. This of course runs the risk of injuring himself and others accidentally. They're also highly responsive to his anger and anxiety, and Camille risks losing control if he ever gets too angry or scared.

Glass Manipulation ⫻ Cannot manipulate shards of glass much bigger than his hand, unless he is trying to shatter a large pane of glass. Has a maximum manipulation capacity of about 15 pounds of glass. The closer a piece of glass is to the limit of his control range, the less accurate and strong his control, and his max capacity is also diminished. Might cut or injure himself on his own glass if not careful.

Portal Creation ⫻ The portals are not especially huge, with a maximum size of about one person. Like anything shattered, the edges are jagged and sharp, and might injure anyone carelessly traversing through. The portals are not very long-lasting, and will close after about 2 minutes of being opened, or if Camille ceases to maintain them. Has a maximum range of about 20 meters. Shattering space to create portals is a very literal action, and requires a physical effort, like a punch, which can also lead to injuries like cuts or bruising.

Through the Looking Glass ⫻ The size of the portals is determined by the size of the anchoring mirror. The anchor will be destroyed if the mirror is destroyed, and will be moved if the mirror is moved. Camille has to touch the portals with his Channeler for them to be functional: other people, even allies, will not be able to use them if he is not there as an intermediary. Can only sustain about 3 pairs of linked mirrors.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ Camille’s magic is directly linked to his emotions. Anger and anxiety cause his shards to move faster and his portals to grow larger, but they also impair his control. The shards fly unpredictably, bounce off surfaces, and can hurt him as easily as enemies. He often bleeds from minor mistakes, and repeated use leaves his hands raw with small cuts. Glass pieces cannot be larger than roughly the size of his hand or 15 pounds without breaking apart or veering off course. Larger shards shatter unexpectedly, scattering fragments. Shards that leave his control retain momentum and may collide with him, embed in walls, or trap his feet. Portals have jagged edges and last for less than 2 minutes. Misaligned or unstable portals can injure anyone who passes through them. Creating portals requires physical strikes; missed or mistimed punches can bruise, strain, or cut his hands and arms. Portals vanish if he loses contact or focus, sometimes leaving him suspended mid-action. The Looking Glass relies on mirrors—moving, breaking, or obscuring one destroys the connection. Keeping more than three mirror pairs active strains his focus, leading to partial failures, lag, or misfires. Any disturbance in the anchor points can trap him or leave him vulnerable. All of Camille’s attacks are destructive, uncontrolled, and environment-dependent. Falling shards, collapsing glass, or misused portals often create hazards nearby. The more he fights, the more chaotic the battlefield becomes, increasing the risk of self-injury.

^{Other
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"...I miss Papa..."

- Camille loves literature. He however makes a point out of not reading any American or English literature if not for school.
- Despite his behavioural issues, he's got good grades in school, except in English class. The language barrier kinda screws him over there.
- If he ever was to see a therapist, he'd probably be diagnosed with something along the lines of cPTSD, anger issues, and/or schizotypal personality disorder. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be in the cards for now.