WHO: Flint, Coupe, Yseult WHAT: Spirited intellectual debate WHEN: Some time between death announcement and the memorial WHERE: Central tower NOTES: Violence
He nearly follows the rise of her hand with another blow from the spyglass-turned-cudgel. It's a jerking motion - a snarling dog primed to snap after any hand shaped shadow -, but the half collapse of her weight sideways either triggers the slump of his arm or throws her far enough out of the immediate arc of the blow's trajectory that there's no impact. He doesn't loosen his grip though, just lies rigid and braced for something explosive for a moment, for two.
The broken end of the glass jams hard against the worn surface of the table. He uses it to lever himself up, sliding hard on his heels. Dead husband should inspire a flash of guilt or a shock of shame under the hurt radiating high on the left side of his face, but the sound of it sits like oil on water. It's the broken lens scattered in the folds of his coat and under it sits some hard edge thing that he can't quite unwind his fingers from.
Or maybe that's just the telescope still, clenched in his hand.
Coupe makes a raw noise. Still half staggered against the ironwood's edge, Flint touches his neck and wipes his face; he ignores the metal taste and the smeared flecks of blood on his palm and he doesn't look at Yseult, though he does tip his face roughly in her direction. A tender clearing of the throat.
"Quite," is for them both, accompanied by a hard look and refusal to step back and create space to continue or to acknowledge the secret she's just spit out like Coupe's clot from the back of her throat. She's not about to offer the benefit of the doubt or to spare them the indignity of supervision: she'll stand there ready to intervene again until they return to their corners.
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He nearly follows the rise of her hand with another blow from the spyglass-turned-cudgel. It's a jerking motion - a snarling dog primed to snap after any hand shaped shadow -, but the half collapse of her weight sideways either triggers the slump of his arm or throws her far enough out of the immediate arc of the blow's trajectory that there's no impact. He doesn't loosen his grip though, just lies rigid and braced for something explosive for a moment, for two.
The broken end of the glass jams hard against the worn surface of the table. He uses it to lever himself up, sliding hard on his heels. Dead husband should inspire a flash of guilt or a shock of shame under the hurt radiating high on the left side of his face, but the sound of it sits like oil on water. It's the broken lens scattered in the folds of his coat and under it sits some hard edge thing that he can't quite unwind his fingers from.
Or maybe that's just the telescope still, clenched in his hand.
Coupe makes a raw noise. Still half staggered against the ironwood's edge, Flint touches his neck and wipes his face; he ignores the metal taste and the smeared flecks of blood on his palm and he doesn't look at Yseult, though he does tip his face roughly in her direction. A tender clearing of the throat.
"So one of the new Rifters then."
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