Damn. And here Myr’d hoped--without any real weight, for say what one would of Benedict, he was clever and persistent when driven to it--that the deliberate misunderstanding would be a way to let the question slide unremarked. But so it went.
“That’s for another time,” or never. Preferably never. It makes his pulse quicken uncomfortably to even contemplate explaining, let alone having to actually do it. At least--unwilling as he is to shed the blindfold--he's an excuse to sit out the conversation and take slow deep breaths to drive off the first starts of panic. The banter's at least a tolerable distraction from the too-near feeling of the four spirits--no, make that five--
"Benedict, are you all right?"
Audible distress draws the attention of the wraithish woman-thing with the sword. Its head spins all the way about to regard him before the body rotates to follow, locked on to Benedict. One moment it is there by the table; the next it is before the young mage, improbable sword upraised over its head.
no subject
“That’s for another time,” or never. Preferably never. It makes his pulse quicken uncomfortably to even contemplate explaining, let alone having to actually do it. At least--unwilling as he is to shed the blindfold--he's an excuse to sit out the conversation and take slow deep breaths to drive off the first starts of panic. The banter's at least a tolerable distraction from the too-near feeling of the four spirits--no, make that five--
"Benedict, are you all right?"
Audible distress draws the attention of the wraithish woman-thing with the sword. Its head spins all the way about to regard him before the body rotates to follow, locked on to Benedict. One moment it is there by the table; the next it is before the young mage, improbable sword upraised over its head.