we smash like glass

[fightingale]

WHO: Herian Amsel, Leliana, Ruby Lucas & others.
WHAT: amusing comment about catch alls here
WHEN: throughout September
WHERE: various.
NOTES: closed threads for the month of September, please don't hesitate to make me if you'd like something with Ruby, Leliana or Herian.

Comments

[glandival]

Sabine's smile does nothing to reassure anyone; toothy and quick. More the other end of the jest than any meaningful threat as she slides into place behind Herian, gathering water and soap in her hands.

Scars can hurt, even older ones. Her hands are gentle. They could probably be gentler, but.

She's done this for proper ladies before, just usually not accompanying them all the way into the bath. "These are new," she observes, fingers sliding over where sweat has made patterns of travel dirt at the back of Herian's neck, high on her spine. "The ink," she clarifies, but also; "The scars, too. I would not like to see the loser of such a battle."

[dashing]

"I did a favour for an artist in a little village near Val Foret. She offered it as thanks." From her left shoulderblade and slashing up towards the base of her neck is a slash of a scar, and Herian turns her head, almost looks over her shoulder, almost looks at Sabine. The burns are old, still sensitive, but that fresher scar is more raw, even if Herian is not one to flinch.

"A chevalier. It was a less agreeable parting than the ink won me, I think." It ended with his head parted from his shoulders, and Herian having to flex her hands into fists to steady herself, breath coming ragged. "If the soul resting in me were poetic," she starts, "I could make lamentations that there is no true winner in any fight."

The smile is fleeting, more a jagged tug at the corners of her mouth than anything else. An echo of mirth, not the true voice of it. "I am surprised you remember my scars, Cóiméad."

[glandival]

"You should know that I have a good eye for detail," Sabine says, a gentle tug at one stray lock of dark hair. "Better than many."

Water cupped two-handedly is distributed over Herian's shoulder, coursing away grit and soap both. "These were all from chevaliers?" She doesn't doubt it, necessarily; her fear of chevaliers is only proportionate to how efficient they are at putting slices into people. That Herian is someone capable of lopping off their heads is most definitely part of the appeal.

Her fingertip traces one long scar at Herian's arm curiously, picking out a marking she has not touched before.

[dashing]

"Some of them are probably from you," she replies, and finally a note of more evident amusement steals into her voice, Herian looking a little more over her shoulder both in response to the tug and the question. The easy familiarity with Sabine is something she missed, much as it comes steeped with a strange sort of bittersweet. Time and sands and blood seemed to flow relentlessly, in Thedas; it left little consideration for things that might have been. They are, she suspects, more than well enough as they are.

When next she speaks, her tone is more even again. "That is from a Templar, when the Spire fell. Those," and with the arm not being mapped out, she gestures vaguely to her back, those rather than calling them burns, "are from the Dalish."

Preemptive, quietly defensive in ways that are very subtle and very unlike how she normally speaks to Sabine.