“See, the thing is,” Stephen starts, “is that I don’t think it is.”
The sorcerer was holding a cocktail. He turns his palm in a complicated gesture, and— suddenly his hands are empty, like a stage magician doing flashy sleight-of-hand except he somehow pocketed an entire glass full of liquid. It’s gone.
He feels a little better, a little more in control of himself; grasping at the threads of the dream even as the dream itself, or whoever’s behind it, or whatever’s behind it, pushes back. He examines the details as he remembers them, as they’ve been subtly fed to him, and considers the picture it presents and which he’s supposed to buy. (He wishes he could buy it.) If the Venatori here were never really a thing…
“How’d you get that scar on your neck?” Stephen asks, offhand, deceptively casual.
If Benedict’s throat was pristine and unharmed a moment ago and it seemed like he didn’t have that gnarly scar anymore: well, he does now.
no subject
The sorcerer was holding a cocktail. He turns his palm in a complicated gesture, and— suddenly his hands are empty, like a stage magician doing flashy sleight-of-hand except he somehow pocketed an entire glass full of liquid. It’s gone.
He feels a little better, a little more in control of himself; grasping at the threads of the dream even as the dream itself, or whoever’s behind it, or whatever’s behind it, pushes back. He examines the details as he remembers them, as they’ve been subtly fed to him, and considers the picture it presents and which he’s supposed to buy. (He wishes he could buy it.) If the Venatori here were never really a thing…
“How’d you get that scar on your neck?” Stephen asks, offhand, deceptively casual.
If Benedict’s throat was pristine and unharmed a moment ago and it seemed like he didn’t have that gnarly scar anymore: well, he does now.