"Orlesian folktales give me nightmares," Alistair says, because otherwise now that she's mentioned it he might have insisted. "All that backstabbing."
But he's opening his pack, fishing out a battered journal—he writes, sometimes. Sort of. The pages he flips through are equal parts messily scrawled lists and notes, sketched maps, and stick figures or cartoonish mabari. The pages he slows for are the denser ones, until he stops on a page filled mostly with numbers and symbols. Mostly. There's also a doodle of a stick figure with scribbled dark hair and something dark across her nose running away from another figure with horns, with a face like :O.
"I don't understand this at all," he says. That isn't true. He understands half of it, give or take, and he definitely knows what it is: instructions for blood magic seals. Not the ones that bound Corypheus, precisely, but some like them, copied out of the archives while he was being nosy.
no subject
But he's opening his pack, fishing out a battered journal—he writes, sometimes. Sort of. The pages he flips through are equal parts messily scrawled lists and notes, sketched maps, and stick figures or cartoonish mabari. The pages he slows for are the denser ones, until he stops on a page filled mostly with numbers and symbols. Mostly. There's also a doodle of a stick figure with scribbled dark hair and something dark across her nose running away from another figure with horns, with a face like :O.
"I don't understand this at all," he says. That isn't true. He understands half of it, give or take, and he definitely knows what it is: instructions for blood magic seals. Not the ones that bound Corypheus, precisely, but some like them, copied out of the archives while he was being nosy.