"'Fore or after they fried?" That's gotta be a no, "Sounds near mage shite."
And that's full-tilt weird: Dwarves don't touch the Fade. Mornings, the maid would pour the tea, and he'd tell Sybelle about the night before. All the details he could scrounge, every bit of story; and a little line would pinch her brows, wondering at the shape of it.
(I saw you in a dream, He'd told her, in the market that first day. And later, all piled in bed, she'd shut her eyes. Shut them and said: I don't see a thing.)
"I never met a golem," At last. His back throbs. "But the drawings got them fulla light."
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And that's full-tilt weird: Dwarves don't touch the Fade. Mornings, the maid would pour the tea, and he'd tell Sybelle about the night before. All the details he could scrounge, every bit of story; and a little line would pinch her brows, wondering at the shape of it.
(I saw you in a dream, He'd told her, in the market that first day. And later, all piled in bed, she'd shut her eyes. Shut them and said: I don't see a thing.)
"I never met a golem," At last. His back throbs. "But the drawings got them fulla light."