( The gentle sound of his name isn't going to cut it, it seems. Jack doesn't respond, doesn't move — though his eyes flicker quickly beneath his eyelids as subconscious recognition filters through him.
The water doesn't stop — but it doesn't get dangerous either, exactly. It's not a raging rapid, not a rushing river, but it might qualify as a particularly overweight creek. A bloated stream after Thanksgiving? It definitely falls somewhere in between the two points on that spectrum.
A few more short seconds pass, and then a new challenger approaches.
Floating lazily down the stream is a feathery white figure. A duck? A swan? Obviously some kind of water fowl, paddling its little webbed feet and dipping its bill beneath the water, lazily shivering the droplets off again.
Until it sees Rhy, at which point it freezes stock-still.
A long moment passes. The bird makes direct fucking eye contact.
And then it honks, aggressively lurching forward. Not a duck. Not a swan. It's a pissed off mother-flipping goose, and it has spotted prey. As we can see, Jack Townsend has truly horrifying nightmares. )
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The water doesn't stop — but it doesn't get dangerous either, exactly. It's not a raging rapid, not a rushing river, but it might qualify as a particularly overweight creek. A bloated stream after Thanksgiving? It definitely falls somewhere in between the two points on that spectrum.
A few more short seconds pass, and then a new challenger approaches.
Floating lazily down the stream is a feathery white figure. A duck? A swan? Obviously some kind of water fowl, paddling its little webbed feet and dipping its bill beneath the water, lazily shivering the droplets off again.
Until it sees Rhy, at which point it freezes stock-still.
A long moment passes. The bird makes direct fucking eye contact.
And then it honks, aggressively lurching forward. Not a duck. Not a swan. It's a pissed off mother-flipping goose, and it has spotted prey. As we can see, Jack Townsend has truly horrifying nightmares. )