[ One thing that Pitch discovered rather quickly upon his arrival was that there was a strong undercurrent of fear running through the City. He'd been happy to immerse himself in it, in the way one would sink into a healing spring, bringing himself some internal equilibrium. He'd been too lean on real fears after the Nightmares and Fearlings had taken him down after Burgess and while he'd not betrayed that in his two meetings with Toothiana, he'd not escaped that encounter physically unharmed either.
But in the scant few weeks he'd been here, he was already doing better. Not fully restored (and some part of him wondered if he would be able to get back to that height he'd reached after taking down Sandy) but active once again. He had tested his control over the nightmare sand that he had left and found it usable, though he could get none to form properly: they dissipated back into grains as soon as he removed his touch from them.
They need a few strong bad dreams to anchor them, the Boogeyman realized. Or an unreserved terror... And then one of the signatures he'd been taking note of had disappeared, and Pitch Black had smiled in a way not ever meant to reassure or comfort. It wasn't long after that
The Fearlings were restless and hungry, slinking along the brick and tile walls, lurid as living tar. Pitch himself moved from shadow to shadow, through patches not remotely large enough to hold his stature, following the man. The torch seemed woefully inadequate and the curving gloom swallowed it up, making the contrast between light and dark seem jagged and harsh. When Jim reaches the edge of what Pitch considers his he finally speaks, voice echoing off the vaulted and curved ceilings. ]
no subject
But in the scant few weeks he'd been here, he was already doing better. Not fully restored (and some part of him wondered if he would be able to get back to that height he'd reached after taking down Sandy) but active once again. He had tested his control over the nightmare sand that he had left and found it usable, though he could get none to form properly: they dissipated back into grains as soon as he removed his touch from them.
They need a few strong bad dreams to anchor them, the Boogeyman realized. Or an unreserved terror... And then one of the signatures he'd been taking note of had disappeared, and Pitch Black had smiled in a way not ever meant to reassure or comfort. It wasn't long after that
The Fearlings were restless and hungry, slinking along the brick and tile walls, lurid as living tar. Pitch himself moved from shadow to shadow, through patches not remotely large enough to hold his stature, following the man. The torch seemed woefully inadequate and the curving gloom swallowed it up, making the contrast between light and dark seem jagged and harsh. When Jim reaches the edge of what Pitch considers his he finally speaks, voice echoing off the vaulted and curved ceilings. ]
He isn't down here, Captain.