Alan blinks up owlishly, from where he’s been busy about rifling through one of those books (upside-down, without any particular care) —
"No," He offers, remembers after a moment, to specify: "Not here. I saw one once like that, it was covered in checks. Or. No. It might have been purple. No, I haven't seen it."
All of this delivered as flatly as can be. He snaps the book shut, tucks it into a fold of coat to edge a bit closer, hands splayed wary:
"Are you hurt?"
His head tips aside, unblinking, to regard Sarkan. To say that he’d come out of nowhere isn’t inaccurate; Alan’s no fighter, loathes the need for it now, he’d done his best to keep clear of the fray until the chaos was done. The books are a pleasant distraction from the bodies yet being cleared, the stink of char and blood and Fade.
He hates this. Hates that they do this. But some of the books have pictures, and the people who were here, they weren't people any more at all.
(A lurch in his stomach at the memory of the Winter Palace, the monsters there. At all that a templar might do.)
ii!
"No," He offers, remembers after a moment, to specify: "Not here. I saw one once like that, it was covered in checks. Or. No. It might have been purple. No, I haven't seen it."
All of this delivered as flatly as can be. He snaps the book shut, tucks it into a fold of coat to edge a bit closer, hands splayed wary:
"Are you hurt?"
His head tips aside, unblinking, to regard Sarkan. To say that he’d come out of nowhere isn’t inaccurate; Alan’s no fighter, loathes the need for it now, he’d done his best to keep clear of the fray until the chaos was done. The books are a pleasant distraction from the bodies yet being cleared, the stink of char and blood and Fade.
He hates this. Hates that they do this. But some of the books have pictures, and the people who were here, they weren't people any more at all.
(A lurch in his stomach at the memory of the Winter Palace, the monsters there. At all that a templar might do.)