Yet another mega short mind dump. I hope you don't mind I've been writing so little on each character. I find that I have an idea I really like but then I get too busy or too bored to complete it ;-; so this is my compromise. a few repeats, but mainly just what i felt like writing out

Aspen

It was instinctual, putting a hand on one of his trainee's shoulders, smiling at him encouragingly, flirtatiously, before he complimented him, for he had been improving on his aim. A soft laughed pulled from Aspen's lips and he didn't think he was very happy, but he was sure it made him look the part. His eyes glittered as he drew back from the faerie, a smile still flickering on and off in his expression. Why was he acting in such a way? It wasn't as if he was attracted to him, nor was he particularly in the mood for company, and yet he still found that his words were far too coy to be simply friendly.

Excusing himself, he drew in a breath, finding it difficult to understand his thoughts. He never liked to look in at himself, for he wasn't always happy with what he saw, but he did anyway and scolded himself. Stooping down to grab his bow, he trailed away into the forest to retreat. He glanced around. Was that guilt? He chewed on his lip and shook his head. Of course he was being too sensitive about things, for who he teased in the Hunt was hardly anyone else's business, nor was it something dangerous. It just felt wrongand that was something he didn't understand, so he decided to push it away. It was better...no, easier to let it sit in the back of his mind, away from confrontation.

Cole

It wasn't like himself to be so lethargic, spending many of his hours in his room, not even to pace, but to sit and read. He forced himself to keep himself presentable, but even that had started to deteriorate, for though his hair was done and pushed from his face and he was dressed up in his usual attire, a smear of blood had dried against the white cuff of his shirt where he had not been able to reach for a cloth quickly enough. There was no doubt that if werewolf blood did not run through his veins, he would have been dead already. And he wasn't sure if that's what he would have preferred. He did not think life suited him, as it suited some people. It suited Stephanie, who certainly seemed to derive a strange bit of joy from the company of others and from simple things. If he had been forced to live out the entirety of his life, he thought he might have gone madder than he already had been.

Rows of vials and pill bottles sat on his dresser, most of them forced onto him, and he didn't have the energy to argue. They soured his tongue, and granted him a fever. He had chills at night, often sitting by the window and gazing out, almost wistful for a full moon, for it was often a brief respite from the medication and the headaches. Sometimes, he got to thinking that maybe he was more medicine than blood.

Ember

She did not think people quite understood that it was possible to be okay, so they sometimes didn't believe her when she tried to convince them she was good. Happy, even. Sickness was no longer something that plagued her, as it had when she was a mundane, and her reflexes were quick - quick enough to protect her friends. The weakness she had once carried in her body had been wiped away, for magic held her together better than the sinews and tendons of flesh. Wounds were mortal, for Caterina knew enough about magic to fix even her mechanics up, and Lev was all too willing to help her. She did miss certain things, like sneezes, burning her tongue on too-hot soup, or the softness of petting a cat, but they were small enough things that did not bother her. To be able to carry out her job and see that the Institute was safe was all that seemed to matter to her. Single-minded, maybe, but she liked the simple goodness of life.

Ethos

Privately, when he had come back from the trip to the Hunt, Ethos took the time to escort the horse back to the stables, liking to have a bit of time by himself. The gesture of feeling the imprint of the tooth where it lay under his shirt had grown habitual, his fingertips tracing the outline over the fabric. He scorned himself for not giving it back to Kellan, but somehow, he did not think it would have been the right time, or occasion to do such a thing. It weighed heavily around his neck, and he pulled it from under his shirt so he could close his fingers around it. He could not decipher his emotions, even tell if what he was feeling was something positive or negative, and it was strange to be plagued with such a thing, thinking he knew himself well.

He'd give the tooth back the absolute next time he saw Kellan, he decided, tucking the tooth back so it was hidden again. It was strange to have a secret, since he often found himself to be surface level, with nothing hidden underneath. Now, though, there was some sort of forbidden detail about him that he kept from others, even if he didn't know why he felt so guilty for possessing the tooth. It felt like he had accepted more than just a trinket. Like it was some sort of betrayal to the Seelie, as if he had indulged in something that was not his to enjoy. He did not think his shame was enough for him to repent, though, and he kept his thoughts sealed, only murmuring them to his horse.

Connor

He'd had a bad day, hands jittery and daggers a little too unsteady for him to feel comfortable using. He might slip up, slit up, and then cut his chest open, his fingers winding in the veins to reach through his ribcage to coax his heart to stop fluttering so fast. But his hands would be shaky, his fingers too firm on around his heart and he thought it might burst, but that it might fill whatever empty cavity that remained inside of him with blood. Maybe instead he'd run off the edge of some building and reel in the ground like he was going fishing, writing his own story when he fell off the 25th one in the city. Maybe he'd develop an addiction, overdose on something illegal like the rest of the country, and spend the last minutes of life reeling in some psychedelic haze.

He'd had a bad day. It was difficult - impossible, sometimes - to convince himself that's all it was, and he retreated from the Towns, back to the city, the Institute, and then to his room, needing to ground himself in something familiar and safe. His hands were steadier and he was silent, taking to writing the first letter he'd voluntarily written to his parents in years. They wouldn't have much sympathy, but he'd have to wait for their reply. Another few days, maybe even a week, and that was a good guarantee. Perhaps the bad day would be over.

Perhaps it would pass.