i’ve been waiting on the fault line | OTA

[limier]

WHO: Wren Coupe, Melys, Casimir Lyov, Finch Wicker + YOU
WHAT: Catchall for the month
WHEN: Mid- whatever this month is i give up
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Will edit as appropriate

 

Editing these in as I go, if you’d like a specific starter please hmu on plurk or discord (oeste#8807). ♥

Comments

[rowancrowned]

His lips purse, at both counts, he can think of others whom he would name affected, look at her, sloppy and undignified, she deserves better than this and thus is not herself.

"It is not a spell," he says, disdaining the world and the way they handle things they cannot understand. "And I think it affecting more than the Rifted, considering," a careless gesture of sweeping fingers, "your state."

He is stubborn. There will be no addressing of the topic until she does so properly.

[limier]

Her eyes cast briefly skyward — it acts as magic does — an impulse she'd more usually smother.

"I have not been sleeping," And that's all. "It happens, of a time."

More often than not, lately. Strange dreams, cold ones, nights spent digging in the earth. But already this is an admission more than he requires; her tongue's been knocked loose today.

"I will be well." She reaches out in gesture to his collar, motions as though unhooking fabric. "If you may alter it, you ought. They will question why it has not befallen you, and the healers do not require such a distraction."

[rowancrowned]

Ah, then, they have that in common, and his lady-love does insist. He unbuttons his collar, enough that he may side his shirt off-- in for a copper, in for a silver-- and his fingers close around her wrist before she can pull her hand out of his reach. He studies her skin for a moment, and like ink blossoming over wet paper, he adapts.

"Are you satisfied?" he says, letting her go, his shirt folded over his arm. He studies his wrist, memorizing the color, and idly supposes that, at some point, he could well have just checked the color of his own skin at the moment and adjusted based upon that.

Perhaps he just ought to check-- so he does, dropping the glamour, and deciding that yes, he chose the correct shade in imitation of Wren. This does confirm his illness, which he is suddenly bitter about.