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Not quite potatoes in Ireland. But it might do.

That one wasn't my work, [ Adam says, though it doesn't really sound defensive. If anything, it's kind of a strange thing to say — it is, of course, Famine's work but it's not Adam's work and the fact that there's a difference at all gives him a moments pause. ] In a manner of speaking, anyway.

[ He drops his hands into his pockets, flicking his gaze up at some of the higher stalks. ]

How've you been, Asphodel?

[He's simply there, content with the silence.]

[ Be one of the Four and you become familiar with silence, in the end. It's the be all and end all — the absence of everything and the Four exist to both bring about and end it. That, and you live for a long time. It's pretty easy to get used to being by yourself after centuries of being 'on the job'.

Adam doesn't turn but he does say, eventually: ]

It's something, huh?

[ Where the Four go, misery follows — paving its path by way of pain and suffering. Where these things go, the Black Dog runs ahead and harkens, for he is the harbinger of ill omen and death. The Pale Rider's pet, more or less.

He lifts a hand and shields his eyes from the sun. ]

All of it?

[ Adam hums, as if considering his answer. Truth is that he's made his mind up already — he wouldn't have shown up in person if he hadn't. ]

Probably, [ He tells him, rolls his shoulders and lets his mouth curve into a small smile. There was a time when Adam would have protested, intentionally made the damage as small as possible — but all things catch up with you. It's a lesson he's learned and it's good that he has. ]

I don't know. Maybe. Do you think it's a bit dramatic?

[ Blackie laughs and, fittingly enough, that laugh is more a bark than anything else. The cigarette that hangs from his lip burns, smoke seeping from the tip of it and off the ends of his thick dark lashes. In the blacks of his eyes there is a different kind of smolder — one that is ageless and endless and indifferent. (The Black Dog is not evil, no more than Death itself is evil.) ]

You're of the Four, you're One Who Rides. [ Blackie squints sideways at Adam. ] You've a far better sense of overdramatism than I ever will.

[ He laughs, too, but it comes out almost sheepish (more and more towards degrees that are human). Blackie's right — Famine, along with eir brothers and sisters has never been subtle about anything. The nature of destruction, if you wanted to get poetic about it, though blight could come as slow as poison if you let it. ]

Yeah. Suppose so.

[ Idly, he reaches out to touch the nearest stalk of corn. The stretched feeling in his bones tells him that it'll be a dry-spell. It's been a long time coming. ]

My sister doing okay?

Not quite potatoes in Ireland. But it might do.

That one wasn't my work, [ Adam says, though it doesn't really sound defensive. If anything, it's kind of a strange thing to say — it is, of course, Famine's work but it's not Adam's work and the fact that there's a difference at all gives him a moments pause. ] In a manner of speaking, anyway.

[ He drops his hands into his pockets, flicking his gaze up at some of the higher stalks. ]

How've you been, Asphodel?

[He's simply there, content with the silence.]

[ Be one of the Four and you become familiar with silence, in the end. It's the be all and end all — the absence of everything and the Four exist to both bring about and end it. That, and you live for a long time. It's pretty easy to get used to being by yourself after centuries of being 'on the job'.

Adam doesn't turn but he does say, eventually: ]

It's something, huh?

[ Where the Four go, misery follows — paving its path by way of pain and suffering. Where these things go, the Black Dog runs ahead and harkens, for he is the harbinger of ill omen and death. The Pale Rider's pet, more or less.

He lifts a hand and shields his eyes from the sun. ]

All of it?

[ Adam hums, as if considering his answer. Truth is that he's made his mind up already — he wouldn't have shown up in person if he hadn't. ]

Probably, [ He tells him, rolls his shoulders and lets his mouth curve into a small smile. There was a time when Adam would have protested, intentionally made the damage as small as possible — but all things catch up with you. It's a lesson he's learned and it's good that he has. ]

I don't know. Maybe. Do you think it's a bit dramatic?

[ Blackie laughs and, fittingly enough, that laugh is more a bark than anything else. The cigarette that hangs from his lip burns, smoke seeping from the tip of it and off the ends of his thick dark lashes. In the blacks of his eyes there is a different kind of smolder — one that is ageless and endless and indifferent. (The Black Dog is not evil, no more than Death itself is evil.) ]

You're of the Four, you're One Who Rides. [ Blackie squints sideways at Adam. ] You've a far better sense of overdramatism than I ever will.

[ He laughs, too, but it comes out almost sheepish (more and more towards degrees that are human). Blackie's right — Famine, along with eir brothers and sisters has never been subtle about anything. The nature of destruction, if you wanted to get poetic about it, though blight could come as slow as poison if you let it. ]

Yeah. Suppose so.

[ Idly, he reaches out to touch the nearest stalk of corn. The stretched feeling in his bones tells him that it'll be a dry-spell. It's been a long time coming. ]

My sister doing okay?