Jone, he says, not Jone of Denerim, not Daughter of Denerim. Perhaps he is tired. Perhaps it was intentional, and that for her, he drops his guard.
“Many would say in that I am as close to a Vint as a man from Ivalice could ever stand to be.” Still, there is a soft scuff of a sound as he hefts his parcel higher, eyes trained on creeping mist as it passes in snakelike curls around their heels, obscuring the earth.
“You speak of them as though they are spirits. Or viera.”
no subject
Jone, he says, not Jone of Denerim, not Daughter of Denerim. Perhaps he is tired. Perhaps it was intentional, and that for her, he drops his guard.
“Many would say in that I am as close to a Vint as a man from Ivalice could ever stand to be.” Still, there is a soft scuff of a sound as he hefts his parcel higher, eyes trained on creeping mist as it passes in snakelike curls around their heels, obscuring the earth.
“You speak of them as though they are spirits. Or viera.”
Elves, he means. In places like this.