[Sodium_noir] Hell is Other People

[Josh]

Jeremiah Buford and Ettienne St. Clair
  Mostly Harmless Nosferatu and Toreador Master of Elysium
  Sinclair Mansion
   
  "Buford, are you there man?" Ettienne's voice came from another direction, and seemed to indicate the Toreador had found a less clutter free route to the Solarium. "D..D ..Dammit, what does she do with all these things? Ah there you are old thing! Couldn't mistake that smell for any of these awful green things heh?"
   
  The well dressed man strode into the room with a wrinkled smile, shaking something from his leg as he did so.
   
  “Mr. St Clair,” Buford said, waiting until the Toreador had composed himself again before turning.  Coincidentally, that’s also the length of time it took his upper lip to stop moving after his ‘old thing’ comment.
   
  Buford walked across the room to where St Clair waited and shook the man’s hand.  “Delightful to see you again.”  He took another deep breath, taking childish satisfaction in St Clair’s nearly imperceptible eye-twitch as the glowing ash throbbed.  The score was one-all, but Buford decided to make it a friendly match rather than a cut-throat one.
   
  “Your granddaughter has the most marvelous collection.”  He let go of St Clair’s hand and gestured to the room as a whole.  “I would like to tell her in person one day, rather than relaying them through my man.”  He wandered back to the Bonsai tree, taking the pipe out of his mouth as he bent down to take a closer look.
   
  “These trees are simply amazing.  They cling to life in the most inhospitable of places.  Fire, flood, drought, nothing seems to disturb them.  But once they’re taken in, they’re shaped to fit their owner’s sense of harmony, thus remaining small.”  Buford seemed lost in thought, almost as though he were talking to himself.  “Generations pass, and it appears as though they never grow at all.”
   
  Buford straightened out again, turning towards St Clair.  “Their owners can control what they look like, and bend them to fit their definition of harmony.  But their roots are something else entirely.  They form a tight ball,” with which Buford clenched his fist, “which can absorb more water and nutrients than anyone would think possible for such a tiny little thing.
   
  “Its survival, you see.”  Buford unclenched his fist and put the pipe back into his mouth.  “Everything in nature, even things that look as harmless this little tree here, has an instinctual desire for more than it already has.  More sunlight, more food, more water.  And it’s not even a question of dominance.”  Buford turned his head and locked eyes with St. Clair.  “It’s an ingrained need to gorge on what’s available, because availability today doesn’t guarantee that it will be there tomorrow.”
   
  (Tag Game Operations Director)

 		
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