It is, perhaps, the sort of smile Astrid’s used to getting from her uncle back home: chiding, but indulgent and knowing at the same time; expecting her disobedience, and not genuinely mad at her for it. (At least, she hopes he’s not mad.)
“You’re in the infirmary,” she states, plainly, as if that’s all you need to know. “When people are in the infirmary you ought to visit them and make sure they’re doing all right and not going stir-fuckin’-crazy getting lonely on their ownsome. People get bored when they’re laid up waiting for a broken leg to heal and stuff. People need like… soup, or cookies, or whatever. Or to bring a book or knitting or cards to help ’em keep busy.”
She rattles this all off matter-of-fact, as if it’s the rules to life. (It’s the rules to life in Wulfhold, at the least.)
no subject
“You’re in the infirmary,” she states, plainly, as if that’s all you need to know. “When people are in the infirmary you ought to visit them and make sure they’re doing all right and not going stir-fuckin’-crazy getting lonely on their ownsome. People get bored when they’re laid up waiting for a broken leg to heal and stuff. People need like… soup, or cookies, or whatever. Or to bring a book or knitting or cards to help ’em keep busy.”
She rattles this all off matter-of-fact, as if it’s the rules to life. (It’s the rules to life in Wulfhold, at the least.)