WHO: Nicola + You WHAT: Fresh meat. And eventually old gross meat too. WHEN: Bloomingtide, pre-mod plot. WHERE: Kirkwall & the Gallows for now. NOTES: Putting open and closed things for all my dudes in here as I write them, so if you want to plan something with any of them, tap my shoulder about it.
Not never. That's great. That's fantastic. That's rocketing this from his least favorite part of his experience here so far to still his least favorite part of his experience here so far, but by a wider margin. How about he just takes his horse and meets Riftwatch wherever they're ever going in a week or five?
The only sign of any of these thoughts is a slight tightening of his jaw and the fact that he doesn't unclench his teeth to answer her out loud. He only takes a deep inhale and nods on the sighing exhale. Less impressive, less mysterious.
Sure.
For what it's worth, however, he does not need to be dragged. Her hooked arm is a sufficient spur in his side, and he steps through without jostling feet to make her go sort-of first.
"Oh," he says immediately, wincing against the — what? The everything, squinting and shielding his eyes as if it might only be a matter of a glaring sun before realizing there is no sun to glare. Eloquently: "Why?"
Her prompt answer of, “Ancient elvhenan was full of showy cunts,” does not actually seem intended to be some kind of niche jest, but rather her extremely specific and strongly held opinion on the matter. The remnants of that lost empire that remain mostly try to kill them in ways that suggest a kind of creativity arm’s race that stopped being impressive around the third time a spirit that looked like someone she loved tried to convince her to kill herself.
Maybe if Arlathan was so fucking great it’d still be here, or at least left some kind of legacy beyond mostly things that arguably shouldn’t exist.
It may be fair to say that the particular nature of their work is a biased sample (of things that shouldn’t exist), but say what you will about the Chantry (and she will, at length): they mostly aren’t booby-trapped out the ass. What refreshingly mundane oppression it engages in.
“Here,” she adds, letting go of him to direct them forward, “these are the mirrors we control.”
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The only sign of any of these thoughts is a slight tightening of his jaw and the fact that he doesn't unclench his teeth to answer her out loud. He only takes a deep inhale and nods on the sighing exhale. Less impressive, less mysterious.
Sure.
For what it's worth, however, he does not need to be dragged. Her hooked arm is a sufficient spur in his side, and he steps through without jostling feet to make her go sort-of first.
"Oh," he says immediately, wincing against the — what? The everything, squinting and shielding his eyes as if it might only be a matter of a glaring sun before realizing there is no sun to glare. Eloquently: "Why?"
no subject
Maybe if Arlathan was so fucking great it’d still be here, or at least left some kind of legacy beyond mostly things that arguably shouldn’t exist.
It may be fair to say that the particular nature of their work is a biased sample (of things that shouldn’t exist), but say what you will about the Chantry (and she will, at length): they mostly aren’t booby-trapped out the ass. What refreshingly mundane oppression it engages in.
“Here,” she adds, letting go of him to direct them forward, “these are the mirrors we control.”