Swiftcurrent Creek your heart [m]

Clarice watched as her father shifted, and she humored him; but she bore her fangs in his direction, displeased with his assumption that he was her better any longer. Clarice would rather think herself his equal, but his age warranted him something, and she was of his blood. If ever she obeyed a physical being, it was him, but it was inconsistent. Her loyalties lay within her deranged mind and the whispers she always heard. His gifted daughter. So detached from things owed and the physical world.
xxxxxxAt her fathers words, she nods, sure he would know himself soon. Her clairvoyance was only for the metaphysical, the things unseen; but she could not read those that breathed and moved and touched. His smile earned a delighted expression from Clarice, whose own eyes that matched his own seemed to flash excitedly. Clarice fancied them healthy, but to any onlooker it would be clear the opposite was true. She was eager to indulge again. She could not deny the usefulness of this fast, how it made the voices speak desperately. And now, louder than ever.
xxxxxxShe twitches as she feels another presence. She can make the outline of the figure, but it is transparent, not her own. Clarice looks away, respectful of the thing, the moment, numb, utterly numb, to everything. Quiet, she listens, hoping to hear; but these words were for him, and not for her. She is irate by this, but understanding; she would know, soon. He did not hide things from her, perhaps could not. They were the vessels of the world beyond, the voice given to speak for those deaf to their cries. The wounded sound was met with the tilt of her head, Hm?