Clarke doesn't appear to be a person who smiles very often; she's only eighteen, and she looks it, but even standing in the courtyard and idly rubbing ashes from the surgeon's fire (for want of ink or paint) into the blank final pages of a spellbook in the vague shape of mountains, her resting expression features a worried line between her eyebrows.
The nug's appearance doesn't erase it. She snaps the book shut out of reflex when he darts between her feet, steps in place like she's worried he might run into her or up her leg, and then looks at his apparent owner with uncomprehending skepticism.
She understands what the woman has said; she understands who the woman is. What she doesn't understand is:
"Schmooples?"
Schmooples. It doesn't make Sister Nightingale a less intimidating person to be approached by, when one is a young blood mage with many regrets, but it does put that concern on hold for a moment.
I'm here I'm sorry hiiii.
The nug's appearance doesn't erase it. She snaps the book shut out of reflex when he darts between her feet, steps in place like she's worried he might run into her or up her leg, and then looks at his apparent owner with uncomprehending skepticism.
She understands what the woman has said; she understands who the woman is. What she doesn't understand is:
"Schmooples?"
Schmooples. It doesn't make Sister Nightingale a less intimidating person to be approached by, when one is a young blood mage with many regrets, but it does put that concern on hold for a moment.