Oswald managed to captivate Laurel with a few sentences, though he always paid a lot of attention to his best friend. "An incantation? Like casting a spell out of your fingers?" He genuinely asked.
"Not really. It sounds more like an old prayer in a bunch of nonsense. A plea for someone to come and help. I think that's what mother did to have a child that would last more than a few winters." Oswald replied, a pinch in his heart.
They walked a little, enough to not be recognised by the drunkards fuelled by Tom's generosity. When they found a place, a dark one devoid of any visibility, they stopped. Amid a bunch of hanging tissues and an atmosphere charged in colourants vapours, they both looked at the dusty ground where their fingers could draw freely.
In the middle of an old dyehouse, Oswald first drew a circle and started to write down every small characters that traced a simple star at first, and an entangled mess at the end.
