Gloria was not alone in her opinion, Elliot was a force; he was carefree chaos that occasionally did a nice thing or two. Otherwise he was a rather petulant, little shit. If he was told to leave something alone, he bothered it, to sit still, he ran with reckless abandon. Flying in the face of authority and doing things just to prove he could, at least, that had been her impression. And even though it frustrated Genny to no end, there was an appreciation for the outright disregard for rules and doubt when it served being true to one’s self.
And of being true to one’s self, Gloria seemed to be struggling at every turn. She hid her wound, the action entirely unnoticed given the scope of events and the rather personal address of Elliot at that exact moment. Was blood real here? Surely it hurt, or it could, in the waking mind. But produce actual physical wounds? That would involve an entirely different level of mastery not to mention no small amount of magic.
“Antler?” The repeated word a whisper as she turned back around, perhaps expecting to see actual antlers, the innuendo was clearly lost on her. Maybe she even caught the last few seconds of the naked boy and the antlered cephlobeast.
“I am not your keeper,” she offered flatly to Gloria, granting permission for her to give Elliot whatever beating she felt he deserved. “Landing a hit may be another matter entirely,” her tone now slightly more amused. After all, here she faced a rather large disadvantage compared to the physical fighting pits in Razasan.
Self-reflection seemed to invite retrospective embarrassment, and while it was human and inevitable, it needn’t linger. Either Genny was truly so mature, or so practiced, that a mere wave of her hand could dismiss a memory or Gloria was giving her too much credit. Not a moment later and Genny was facing a semblance of her brother with a tightened jaw.
“Four I think. It was a lovely dream,” distracted, she couldn’t seem to match the prattling excitement of the young man whose appearance was continually shifting.
The entire line of questioning and reasoning, or incitements for argument about whether a woman could or would pee standing was entirely lost, as she watched the canary tattoo come to life and fly away. Seemingly in awe of the small bird, her mouth fell agape. She didn’t even bother, or was too taken by what she’d witnessed to interject on Gloria’s behalf. Though, clearly, if Elliot knew a damn thing about women he would not have even hinted that menstruation was the cause of Gloria’s reaction, let alone to her face.
She stood her ground, even with the impressive explosion of glowing ice so near to her person. As Elliot delivered a tirade she gently swiped away pieces that blocked her vision and listened. “Then I do apologize for endangering you, but what proof have you, that you know any better?”
Elliot had lived and breathed dreams, literally, for several years now. But immersion was not synonymous with understanding, let alone wielding. Contrary to the words themselves, she spoke plainly with a genuine curiosity.
“If the creature you speak of inhabits the space between, how did it get into a dream?” Perhaps no where was truly safe and the creature could come and go as it pleased, or perhaps it was because of the holes Elliot was unintentionally punching the dreamscape. And on that note, how had her brother managed to share a dream? The common link between both Zilliah and Gloria was Genny, who had an aptitude for traversing mindspaces, but the ability wasn’t genetic. There were enough questions on the table, not to mention concerning possibilities, so for the time the Tennant tangent was left unmentioned.
“You must know that we are here with hopes of bringing you back,” genuine and plain; wasn’t the admission, the request, just as she had explained her plan Gloria?