[ Charles should really do this more often; it's been a long while since he's taken his ability and directed it inward to sift through his recent memories, organize things himself rather than let his brain do so naturally in the deep stages of REM. Pulling thick, memory-laden tomes from the shelves and dropping them to the floor with a resounding thud that shakes the walls, smiling faintly at the thin sheen of sweat on his brow. The sonic shockwaves are expected; any readjustment of memories changes something about the layout of his mind, some more subtle than others depending on how he reorders them or rewrites things to make the events more clear when he recalls them in the waking world.
Singing in his usual light tenor, he's light in his feet, engrossed in selecting the pertinent ones to pull out and dust the covers off with his hands. He has no reason to pay attention to anything but the flutter of cobwebs. He's not exactly expecting visitors anytime soon.
Setting another book down, gentler this time, now that he's in a position to crouch down to his piles. ] Down you go, little one.
no subject
Singing in his usual light tenor, he's light in his feet, engrossed in selecting the pertinent ones to pull out and dust the covers off with his hands. He has no reason to pay attention to anything but the flutter of cobwebs. He's not exactly expecting visitors anytime soon.
Setting another book down, gentler this time, now that he's in a position to crouch down to his piles. ] Down you go, little one.