Curt. The young woman in the doorway isn’t real. She isn’t anything for very long — long enough to think Vipond? To dismiss the thought on the slope of a shifting brow. Something more amorphous: A scattering of imagined apprentices, else faces from some crowd.
Not that. The clothes are all wrong, and no mage since the Archon has worn a crown in Kirkwall.
The young woman in the doorway isn’t real. But she’s still in the bloody doorway, and that means shoving hand through stomach to reach the knob.
"If you wish intellectual curiousity," It might be fascinating, under other circumstances, another life. The luxuries of abstraction, of distance, of not owning responsibility for fifty-odd potential abominations. "The Provost will be fucking about somewhere."
It smells like a pyre in here. That isn’t real, either.
no subject
Curt. The young woman in the doorway isn’t real. She isn’t anything for very long — long enough to think Vipond? To dismiss the thought on the slope of a shifting brow. Something more amorphous: A scattering of imagined apprentices, else faces from some crowd.
Not that. The clothes are all wrong, and no mage since the Archon has worn a crown in Kirkwall.
The young woman in the doorway isn’t real. But she’s still in the bloody doorway, and that means shoving hand through stomach to reach the knob.
"If you wish intellectual curiousity," It might be fascinating, under other circumstances, another life. The luxuries of abstraction, of distance, of not owning responsibility for fifty-odd potential abominations. "The Provost will be fucking about somewhere."
It smells like a pyre in here. That isn’t real, either.