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[chlorophylliac]

Since the vampire and now the angel have both resigned their posts but thoughtfully left the door unlocked, I'm adopting the greenhouse and garden.

At least, until one of you idiots decides I'm turning them into my own personal fortress and threatens to hose me down with herbicide.

[Or, more pragmatically, until another Warden gets a key. Of course she can't access the gardening tools, but…she's not the kind of person to be inconvenienced by that.]

[Private to Zev]

There's enough space to seed some of the excess from our collection. Do you have any preferences? I can make chemical adaptations to the soil as necessary.

[Private to Morgana]

I've heard you returned.

Do you remember anything?

[Open spam]

[It's raining lightly on deck, the shower a soft constant drumbeat on the glass overhead. Ivy's still damp from crossing the deck to get here, but the rain and the humidity inside the greenhouse are pleasant, even rejuvenating.

All she's got to do today is basic maintenance. She's mapping plants and soil types in a notebook, occasionally deadheading the spring-flowering plants, and checking for early indicators of disease. Nothing so far; Castiel knew his work. Still, it's nothing to reach into the more vulnerable species and rethread a few strands of DNA, decreasing their susceptibility.

Not having access to the greenhouse equipment cupboard is only irritating insofar as it's also where the less dangerous resources - seed trays, watering cans - are kept. So she's liberated both from her own cabin, along with some fertilizer she made herself, and spends a little time readying a few trays to grow seedlings for the outdoor garden.

It's all easy, meditative work, and it would be quiet if not for the hum and chatter of the plants all around her.]

Comments

[godsays]

Hmm.

[ Well... redemption has to start somewhere.

He drops his hand. ]

So killing things is frowned on here.

[chlorophylliac]

[Her tension visibly unwinds when he leaves well enough alone, her shoulders dropping a little.]

Generally, yes. In self-defense, things are more flexible.

[godsays]

[ She really does care about them, it seems. Odd. That state of mind would be a foreign one for Zane. ]

Is everyone green where you come from?

[ Doesn't seem any more ridiculous a proposition to him as having all the plants be green. ]

[chlorophylliac]

No. I'm unique - a miracle or an abomination, depending on who you ask.

[godsays]

Is it what they call a superpower?

[ He heard the term for the first time in the last day. ]

[chlorophylliac]

They'd call me a metahuman, back home. There's a contingent here who'd call me a mutant.

[She reaches out to a nearby tree in a stone container; touching a small white flowerbud makes it blossom in moments. The petals fall away, and what's left swells into a green apple in the palm of her hand.]

This is what they call a superpower.

[godsays]

[ He steps closer. Unafraid, intrigued. That the fruit swells from the flower is interesting -- it's different. ]

Do you know the difference, between a power and a superpower? [ A question he asked earlier, but the answer was far from satisfactory. ]

[chlorophylliac]

Sounds like a matter of semantics. Why do you assume there is a difference?

[godsays]

[ A shrug. ]

I've never heard of the second kind.

[chlorophylliac]

I'd consider the two interchangeable. Powers, superpowers - words to describe things people like me can do that the average human can't.

Why, do you have some speciality of your own?

[godsays]

Yes.

[ He is one of the most powerful few: the Mistborn. This is something he would have kept a secret, were he an ordinary nobleman; even so, he is unwilling to speak of the specifics of power. ]

[chlorophylliac]

[She makes a soft sound of amusement.]

It must be your exceptionally forthcoming nature.

[But Ivy is Ivy and she doesn't really care enough to pry.]

[godsays]

[ A flicker, in his expression. Could be amusement. Maybe. ]

That too.

So the sun must be less fierce, where you come from. Is it colorful, too?

[chlorophylliac]

Red or yellow, depending on the time of day. I don't suppose you see much of yours at all.

[godsays]

It's red. Hazy.

What about the mists?

[chlorophylliac]

They happen. Though given the nature of your environment I'd assume yours aren't the same as mine.

[godsays]

So mists aren't... [ He searches for a proper word, to express what he always felt from the mists at night. Hostility. ] Sentient. Where you come from.

[chlorophylliac]

No. [Although the more comprehensive answer would be more like 'not usually'. She doesn't keep tabs on what every metahuman in the world is capable of.] Sentient how?

[godsays]

[ There's nothing concrete he can point to. Just feelings.

He shrugs.

And he abruptly feels that there is nothing more he wants to ask - nothing more he wants to reveal.

If she doesn't stop him, he'll turn around and go back out into the rain. ]