Just general things. No real theme here although a lot of them turned into tired contemplations:) Little bit rushed so hopefully there aren't too many mistakes, but I wanted to get it out before I forgot about it!

Trudging through the grass, Devi groaned when his boot started to sink into the mud, taking a few moments to pull himself out. Naya was a few steps behind him, treading in his footsteps. They'd left their houses late afternoon and it was already beginning to grow dark, the increasing density of the forest blocking out the sun. Normally, he would have protested going out at such a time with so few and vague details, but Naya had insisted on it, and he was not very good at turning down her requests. Giving her trouble was easy, but inwardly he knew that she knew he would agree to most of what she pestered him on.

"You're lucky I'm out here to help you look for whatever it is you lost," he said, scanning the ground for anything that stuck out as unnatural. "I don't have to be your friend."

"Oh, by the Angel, don't act like that," she remarked, moving a little faster to bound up next to him, hitting his arm lightly. "Pretty sure your parents would have either wanted you to be my training partner, my parabatai, or marry me. Besides, you're stuck with me now."

He gave her a sideways look, resisting the urge to hit her arm back. "I think I'm getting the short end of the stick in all those situations."

"I'm a great parabatai. And your parents like me-"

"Well, I never said they had good taste." He wrinkled his nose, zipping up his jacket and putting his hands in his pockets. The forest had always given him the chills, having read about all the sorts of things that were in it. It was probably all archaic, the information in the books he'd read, but he was keen on being careful anyway. A few clans and packs dwelled there at times, and getting into trouble was not something he hoped for in their future. If they did meet some opposition in the forest, he was sure that Naya's parents would blame him for any danger they fell into.

"Wow, okay." Rolling her eyes in mock-annoyance, she took his arm to pull him ahead. "Not like you asked me to be your parabatai or anything."

"I blame propinquity." Still, he couldn't argue with her. If he was so opposed to her friendship, he certainly wouldn't be out walking in the freshly rained-on grounds in the thick of the trees for her sake.

The air still smelled like mist, and it was refreshing to get out of his room. They'd been out in the forest the day before to try and track down the whereabouts of a rogue werewolf that had split from the clan that lived there. It hadn't been a success, though, as the information had been too old to pursue efficiently, and all they got out of the excursion was a long walk.

"Ah, there it is," she said suddenly, sounding relieved and moving ahead to pick something up from the ground. She wiped it off with her thumb before pulling out a small cloth to clean the small gleaming object she'd picked up.

"Are you serious?" Starting over to her, he reached out to grab what was in her hand, a gold earring in his fingers. "We came out here for this?"

"Give it back." Snatching it back from him, she moved to raise it to her ear and fiddle with it before she managed to get it on. "I don't want it to just be left out here for someone else to take."

"You're ridiculous." A smudge of soil dirtied her cheek and he moved forward to wipe it off briefly with his sleeve, quickly getting over his brief irritation.

"Thanks, mom." She said the last part with some good-natured sarcasm, but only drew away when he was done. Sometimes he assumed she let him look after her in such ways because she knew he'd follow her in all others.

Letting her fingers catch in his jacket, she turned back to start tugging him back in the direction of his house. The sky was illuminated just enough to guide them out of the forest. He would have suggested using a night vision rune for safety's sake, but it was sometimes nice to be at the disposal of the normal moves of the planet. They didn't always have to use such magic to combat the order of things, and he was confident enough in their ability to navigate to feel secure enough.

"You can stay over tonight if you want," he said once she finally let go of him, their footsteps a little muffled as they started across the damp earth. "If your parents won't get mad."

"They'll find something else to get mad about. Besides, I'm starving."

"If you lose your earring again, I'm gonna lose my sanity," he sighed, glad to see the approaching edge of the forest. "It's even worse you have this idea I'll do anything for you."

She laughed and took his hand, squeezing it briefly. "Oh, cheer up. You know I'd do anything for you too."

I think that you're just as attracted to me, as I am to you, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that. It is certainly nothing to be nervous about.

Savannah had been wrong and he would have made her drink for that if they had still been playing. In any case, there were a great number of things he had to be nervous about. The Unseelie, namely, and himself. When she had guessed that one night that he didn't trust anyone, he wasn't sure if she was also including him in the equation, but it would have been correct regardless. He was a little glad they were somewhat in an understanding on that note - that trust perhaps was something never to be given, although he'd learned that multiple times the hard way. While he was certain Savannah had misplaced her interest, it did not stop him from thinking about what she'd admitted to him about using people.

He'd done a great deal of thinking with all the quiet time he had, sorting through his things and putting ingredients in bags for the specific things he wished to make. They were intrusive ideas and recollections, but it was all he had to amuse himself.

When they'd been together, Lily would brush her fingertips against the scratches she gave him before kissing his hair lightly in some strange softness as they sank into tangled sleep. How someone would share such intimacy only to use them, he didn't know. He did not think he could find it in himself to pretend to want to be romanced, but would instead be gone by morning. He could not imagine what it might be to map out someone he did not particularly care to unravel.

He had fantasized on the rare occasion about girls absent-mindedly, mostly when nights were particularly quiet. Thought of legs hooked around his hips and hands against bare skin. That she might be demanding and unyielding instead of quiet and pliant, coaxing him on and reaching for him with the same fervor that he might reach for her. Though he willed himself to not think of such things, memories of desires were not so easily forgotten. Mostly, he missed the heat of bruising kisses, strangled breaths, and the way communication did not always have to be awkward and biting.

His communication now was certainly awkward and biting. The right words and reactions did not come to him easily, and he worried he'd forced himself to become dull and submissive. Maybe that's what his caution had done to him. 'Nervous' was not a quality the Unseelie would relate to.

He was perhaps also nervous about the things he might say. That he might spill something he was not very proud of, as there were certainly a number of things he'd done that weren't to be celebrated or told freely. Dishonorable things even the Unseelie would have looked down upon, which was ironic because many of the things he did were for them. He was not sure how strong her moral compass was, or even how strong his own was, and did not fancy finding out through the admonishment of someone that clearly did not fully understand the intricacies of the culture of fae, Unseelie or not.

If he wasn't so alone and cut off from his faction all the time, he thought he'd be better at pushing her away instead of accepting she'd be some substitute for interaction. Nervous just didn't quite cut it.

It was too early for Isaac to have some sort of hubris in not being able to be touched in a duel. He'd been light with his footwork around the person he'd been put up against, avoiding the jabs they made with their sword with ease. A few swipes with his blades had nicked the opposing Shadowhunter, but nothing bad; this was meant to be a clean fight, after all.

Some students sat to the side, their weapons sheathed as they watched, no doubt anxious for their own turn. When they'd been younger, they'd practiced with blunted blades, but there had to be a point when the training wheels were removed. The number of training sessions that the hopefuls had attended certainly prepared them. While they would not aim to do serious damage, there was no real need to hold back. If one was trained well, they would be able to defend themselves, even against the most skilled of fighters. That was what the Academy had told Isaac, anyway.

He hadn't runed up for the fight except for a simple agility rune, expecting that it would be enough to tide him over until the next serious fight. So far, he hadn't been touched. His faerie blood already granted him superior dexterity, and sometimes he relied on it too much, brushing off any need for runes. The pain was often not worth it.

He hadn't been paying attention when the Shadowhunter ducked under his blades, hitting into his shoulder and upsetting his balance. His recovery was not quite quick enough to save himself from being tripped, slamming into the padded floor with a cough. One of his blades was left scattered across the floor, the other still firmly set in his right hand and he swung out from where he laid, managing to catch the Shadowhunter's leg. There wasn't enough time to push himself up, though, and he made a strangled sound at the weight of them suddenly pushing him down into the mat, catching his wrist and slamming it back against the floor.

He tried to struggle, but the hand stayed pinned his wrist and an arm stayed pressed into his chest where it kept him on the ground. His free hand pressed against the Shadowhunter, trying to push them off, but it was fruitless, finding he could gain no real momentum or upper hand. A strength rune on the Shadowhunter's neck was not quite covered by their gear. It wouldn't have mattered if they didn't have it, anyway. He was never quite as strong as they were.

When the pressure on his chest started to grow painful, it ceased and the Shadowhunter drew back to stand. Isaac's face burned in embarrassment, partially because he'd lost publicly, but mostly due to the fact that it'd been over for him as soon as he hit the ground. The Shadowhunter had a few scratches, but didn't seem quite as winded as he was.

"I think someone like you would be better in ranged combat," the Shadowhunter said, offering a hand to help him up. His tone was innocent, as Isaac was sure he meant it in no real spite or ridicule, but he still could not stop a small feeling of offense in response.

"I can get up myself," Isaac said coolly, pushing himself to his feet without the help, dusting himself off to gather his blades instead.

"I'll be back in two weeks to pick up more of the herbs," Percy said, stepping back from the counter with a friendly smile and bag of ingredients. The storeowner was a nice, older werewolf, which was a hard thing to find, but she treated him well when he came on occasion to buy items he needed.

"Sure thing. We'll be restocked," the woman said, waving him off. "Don't have too much fun out there in the Towns."

"Oh, I never do." He laughed off her words amicably as he exited, wanting to make it back to the Institute to continue a private order. The bell of the shop jingled quietly as he left and he started through the streets.

He'd never felt particularly unsafe there once he learned how to navigate it, finding that warlocks were generally less messed with than other species. That didn't mean he didn't still exercise caution, though, as he knew his sometimes reckless habits in science should not be translated into his street habits. There were always seedy things happening, and he kept to himself, knowing it was always best to not get involved.

The Shadowhunters had only cared on and off about such professions in the Towns, and he sometimes understood why. It was not like many Downworlders had access to mundane education and mundane professions with their conditions. They had to find work where they could, and sometimes drug dens and brothels were a matter of survival. Easy money was hard to turn down. It was then he felt lucky to have an innate skill that others without magic would not be able to replicate. The richer parts of the Towns did not usually have such things, he found, but parts that extended by the forest and the furthest from the mundanes did not have as many legal and favourable businesses.

Nearing the slight divide between the poorer and richer parts of the Towns, he passed by a few establishments that were notorious for working illegal things. They didn't seem to hide it, either, and he wondered off-handedly why the Shadowhunters hadn't put a stop to it yet.

A werewolf girl leaned up against the side of a building, smoking a cigarette and adjusting the strap of her dress. There weren't many people walking through the street that weren't preoccupied and Percy didn't increase his pace but tried to not look around and catch anyone's eye. It felt a little like being the only person in a store, knowing that the attention was on him as the sole available customer.

'If you're lonely, we can help with that," she said as he started to pass her, following him with her eyes, smoke trailing from her lips.

"No, I'm alright," he replied, managing to stay casual despite his discomfort. Instead, he fiddled with his paper bag and continued on.

Sometimes he was lonely, but paid company seemed low, even for him, like it'd be some acknowledgement that he'd failed to ever get into a relationship and make it past simple friendly exchanges. He tried to not question their profession, knowing they had to make money, and he'd thought about what they might have to do. Maybe they did not actually like it and they spent their days wishing they were anywhere else but there, only pretending for their clients. He could never consider such places.

But why wouldn't he? It was clear he had no real relationship in his future, with the busyness that his potions' business granted him and his general lack of close female friends. People would certainly assume that he'd been through the ups and downs and vices of relationships at his age, having lived almost a lifetime of a mundane, and the thought almost made him self-conscious. There was no timeline for which people were supposed to experience things, he knew, but it seemed he'd let his life of alchemy and whatnot get away with him.

He'd had a few crude rudimentary imaginations of what a relationship might entail, but mostly thought about who he might be thinking about. That she might be nice and genuinely interested in his work, and actually see him as something more than a friend. His gaze skirted back to the different establishments down the street. He was curious, but not enough to indulge in such a manner. Maybe because it felt like cheating and anything they might have offered him wouldn't be quite what he was searching for.

Lifting a hand to his face, it felt slightly warm at his train of thought, and he sighed, dropping his hand back to his side. The Towns had always been good for provoking thoughts, even ones he did not particularly want. It would only be perhaps another five or ten minutes of walking until he finally made it back to the mundane parts of the city, where he'd be thinking about the drone of taxis and the lights of distant signs, pedestrians passing him and not knowing who he was. He'd always thought New York was such a crowded city to be lonely in.

When the Seelie had returned to their territory after the war, Ethos had not wanted to rely on the medics to take care of him. He had never thought to take their time, knowing there were others with more severe injuries than he had. Instead, he slinked off to take care of his wounds himself. There was not much magic in the way of healing he knew, but it was not like he had no sense in how to treat such things. Many times, he'd been alone in the unclaimed lands and gotten various smaller injuries – not often, but it was not always something he was able to prevent.

A bit of blood had stained through his shirt and he'd gotten a new one – a long sleeved black shirt that clasped at the wrists and buttoned up the front with a few flat ribbons that laced up to the neck. Laying it across his lap, he undid the clasp of the cloak to let it fall to the grass where he sat. He shifted where he sat, working on undoing the ties at his shirt and unbuttoning the clasp of his wrists. He slipped his shirt off and folded it carefully, a few red spots dotting the shoulder region.

On instinct, his fingers grazed the cut on his shoulder, feeling the scabbed edges of the wound. No doubt did he also have a mirrored scar on the other side of his shoulder, a deep-rooted ache reminding him of that. It was not often that he remembered he was flesh, that he could be hurt and scarred. That connected to those things were different types of pleasures and different types of pain. He thought often about appearance, but had long since felt disconnected from body and blood. The sudden acknowledgement of such things made him feel unsettled.

Slowly, he lowered his hand so he was no longer touching the wound, instead picking up the shirt and slipping it on. His fingers worked at the buttons, slowly covering exposed skin. If he did not look at himself or feel such wounds, then it was easier to think that they did not exist. He did up the ribbon, tying it in a small, neat bow at his throat, before he closed the clasps of the wrists. His shoulder twinged, and he sighed, not knowing how long it would take until it was fully healed. It was not reassuring to face his own mortality, knowing it was in danger primarily from the threat of violence. That if the blade had only been positioned lower, it could have easily killed him. He might have felt undeniable agony, or nothing. The body was unpredictable and he could only pretend to imagine was death could feel like.

He pushed the thought from his head, not standing up just yet. It was not that he wasn't cognizant of the implications of skin and flesh, but the confrontation of the senses in his acknowledgement kept him still and silent. His hand rested on the grass and it was cold, stinging his fingertips. Mostly, he tuned those small physical sensations out. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be aware of every feeling all at once.