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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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Gwenaëlle levers herself up and twists and he inadvertently groans at the movement, almost slipping out of her. He has to stop and remember how to talk, when all he wants to do is move. This remains one of the only ways to shut him up; to finally turn his brain off, to drown out that never-ending perpetual ticking in the back of his head.
“I’m— fine, it’s fine, just, unexpected,” Stephen says, which is the truth. He runs his thumb along the edge of her hip, silent acknowledgment, reassurance; and then sees the wings quivering, the strain to keep them in place and out of the way.
He exhales, and says to her over her shoulder, “I want you to be comfortable.”
Not tense, not focused so wholly on controlling the wings that it distracts from her own pleasure —
“I’m— fine, it’s fine, just, unexpected,” Stephen says, which is the truth. He runs his thumb along the edge of her hip, silent acknowledgment, reassurance; and then sees the wings quivering, the strain to keep them in place and out of the way.
He exhales, and says to her over her shoulder, “I want you to be comfortable.”
Not tense, not focused so wholly on controlling the wings that it distracts from her own pleasure —
The moment is more than a little surreal. The facts and the farce of it— that she has wings, that they have to figure out how to accommodate them, that he’s concerned with her comfort when she’s just hit him in the face and he’s still balls deep. It is so fucking absurd that she can’t, immediately, even come up with something halfway intelligible to say on it; she takes a breath that shivers through her, trying to steady before the borderline hysterical laughter that’s threatening from somewhere in the pit of her stomach escapes,
what is her life. Maker.
“You won’t hurt me touching them,” she says, confident of that specifically even if it is definitely, specifically possible to hurt her with them. “Can you—”
Gwenaëlle pulls a face, settles on: “Can you put your hand between them? Let me feel if that helps.”
what is her life. Maker.
“You won’t hurt me touching them,” she says, confident of that specifically even if it is definitely, specifically possible to hurt her with them. “Can you—”
Gwenaëlle pulls a face, settles on: “Can you put your hand between them? Let me feel if that helps.”
Letting that laugh escape wouldn’t have been the worst thing; he already knows that feeling Gwenaëlle laugh from inside her is one of his favourite, ridiculous, utterly unplanned sensations of all time, but at the moment they’re working very hard on solving a very important puzzle together and probably need to focus on it —
God, their lives.
And in terms of science, experimentation, seeing what works and what doesn’t, they could do far worse. And so Stephen gamely obliges; like pulling her hair, that anchoring touch and now subtle sensors in the wings being able to tell how far away he is, where his arm is placed. He splays his hand in that strip between the wings, palm pressing down on Gwenaëlle’s spine (another place where she was injured and wasn’t, no scar to mark the memory of Granitefell), weight on vertebrae, and he starts to move once more.
“How’s that,” and his voice is raw; on his knees behind her, pulling out only to rock back in again, accompanied by that slick slide.
God, their lives.
And in terms of science, experimentation, seeing what works and what doesn’t, they could do far worse. And so Stephen gamely obliges; like pulling her hair, that anchoring touch and now subtle sensors in the wings being able to tell how far away he is, where his arm is placed. He splays his hand in that strip between the wings, palm pressing down on Gwenaëlle’s spine (another place where she was injured and wasn’t, no scar to mark the memory of Granitefell), weight on vertebrae, and he starts to move once more.
“How’s that,” and his voice is raw; on his knees behind her, pulling out only to rock back in again, accompanied by that slick slide.
That he isn’t actually asking her about the way he’s moving doesn’t mean that isn’t, first, what he gets a response to; her knuckles whiten where she’s gripping the mussed bedding under them and the mewling sound she makes is best described as something that well might offend her to have repeated back. She definitely doesn’t sound like that, she’d laugh then, fuck off,
and her wings flutter but they don’t rise. He can feel the flex of muscle under his hand, the way they shift, where they connect; she feels that pressure as a guide, less tense but more aware. Easier to relax into and underneath, the irresistible snaps of her wings like flicked fabric out past her shoulders and not where he’s going to catch a slap (again).
“I wouldn’t,” why does she have to have a smart mouth in bed, what’s wrong with just saying yes, good, “describe fucking you anything like— as mildly as — comfortable— for the record,”
dropping her shoulder to find the angle she wants, her fingers brush against him where she touches herself,
“but that is working for me, ouais—”
and her wings flutter but they don’t rise. He can feel the flex of muscle under his hand, the way they shift, where they connect; she feels that pressure as a guide, less tense but more aware. Easier to relax into and underneath, the irresistible snaps of her wings like flicked fabric out past her shoulders and not where he’s going to catch a slap (again).
“I wouldn’t,” why does she have to have a smart mouth in bed, what’s wrong with just saying yes, good, “describe fucking you anything like— as mildly as — comfortable— for the record,”
dropping her shoulder to find the angle she wants, her fingers brush against him where she touches herself,
“but that is working for me, ouais—”
That smart mouth of Gwenaëlle’s is one of the things he loves best about her, the perpetual tart humour, the way she has purposefully moulded it to communicativeness, the way he can hear very loudly what does in fact work for her, whenever he rolls his hips and hits the right spot again. That keening noise that makes everything in him tighten. That sardonic compliment, and she can hear Stephen laugh behind her, fond,
“Good,” breathless, starting to lose the thread a little in those murmured words, “alright, Gwenaëlle, that’s good,”
and they finally figured out how to make it work, landing on the particular configuration of limbs and position that everything’s safely out of the way, and he’s not distracted by the ache in his hands and she’s thinking less of the wings. So in the end it’s just heat and pressure and friction and pleasure, driving himself into her again and again and her fingers sliding against herself and against his cock until they’re both starting to teeter on that peak.
How many times have they made each other fall apart like this, working each other over in bed like this, and even changed he’s never tired of her, ever —
“Good,” breathless, starting to lose the thread a little in those murmured words, “alright, Gwenaëlle, that’s good,”
and they finally figured out how to make it work, landing on the particular configuration of limbs and position that everything’s safely out of the way, and he’s not distracted by the ache in his hands and she’s thinking less of the wings. So in the end it’s just heat and pressure and friction and pleasure, driving himself into her again and again and her fingers sliding against herself and against his cock until they’re both starting to teeter on that peak.
How many times have they made each other fall apart like this, working each other over in bed like this, and even changed he’s never tired of her, ever —
"This is price of coin."
That might be a missing idiom, some fumbled attempt for cost of business. It isn't. It's the cost of seeing the world as one.
"Bad thief to come in front door." Wry, "I am isskari. This is searcher, analyst. I find enchantment, I ask, is this safe? Is this useful? Then, mostly, it sits in box."
Mostly. Dangerous things can be useful, in the right hands.
"So this is with Fade, with Rifts. My people do not want your microscope until it can be remade. Then, probably, we make our own." A finger taps knee. "Frustrating, yes?"
That might be a missing idiom, some fumbled attempt for cost of business. It isn't. It's the cost of seeing the world as one.
"Bad thief to come in front door." Wry, "I am isskari. This is searcher, analyst. I find enchantment, I ask, is this safe? Is this useful? Then, mostly, it sits in box."
Mostly. Dangerous things can be useful, in the right hands.
"So this is with Fade, with Rifts. My people do not want your microscope until it can be remade. Then, probably, we make our own." A finger taps knee. "Frustrating, yes?"
It is very inconvenient that he cares.
Life had been easier, in a way, when he didn’t care; he could ghost through his days flippant and frivolous, never stopping to worry or fret or show concern for other people. For the longest time, he’d experienced Thedas at a remove: only one foot in the world, the other holding himself at a distance in case he up and vanished someday. Now that he’s all in, however —
Stephen has to admit that something twists, sharp, in his chest at the sight of her distress. He worries. Some of it, at the start, had been because he remembered another teenaged girl who had been under his wing, in need of his assistance, but that’s about where the similarities end. Ness is very much not America. New problems, different problems.
He folds his hands on the table, and simply looks at her. Steady, patient.
“Speaking as someone who’s something of an expert in not being fine,” he starts, “and as someone who’s a consummate workaholic himself— completing all your work isn’t, actually, the most important part. Believe it or not.”
Life had been easier, in a way, when he didn’t care; he could ghost through his days flippant and frivolous, never stopping to worry or fret or show concern for other people. For the longest time, he’d experienced Thedas at a remove: only one foot in the world, the other holding himself at a distance in case he up and vanished someday. Now that he’s all in, however —
Stephen has to admit that something twists, sharp, in his chest at the sight of her distress. He worries. Some of it, at the start, had been because he remembered another teenaged girl who had been under his wing, in need of his assistance, but that’s about where the similarities end. Ness is very much not America. New problems, different problems.
He folds his hands on the table, and simply looks at her. Steady, patient.
“Speaking as someone who’s something of an expert in not being fine,” he starts, “and as someone who’s a consummate workaholic himself— completing all your work isn’t, actually, the most important part. Believe it or not.”
Her expression twists with disagreement she doesn't voice, looking down at her hands. The left, numbed and limp, rests on the table; the right, itching and restless, curls against the wood. Both are, she realizes now, mangled, covered in injuries of her own infliction. Shadows cast from her candle render them alien and bizarre, and she can see a spot that, were she not having this conversation, she might feel compelled to set her nails to.
But the work is the most important part. She's sure of that. There's a war on, and not one over something as petty as land or a butt in a chair. This is a war for the future of the world, it matters. Far more than her hands, at any rate.
"What," she starts, and then reconsiders, and shuts her mouth. Tries harder to puzzle through what Stephen could possibly mean by that,
and comes up with an answer she visibly hates, sitting up straighter in her seat.
"But I'm good at it! I can stop worrying about my hands, I won't pay attention to the itching any more. I—I worked—"
Ness trails off, self-conscious, and slowly slumps in her seat. If Stephen thinks she shouldn't be Quartermaster if she's unwell, no one in their right mind would listen to her instead of him. Riftwatch got by without a Quartermaster for a while, it could do so again—and anyway, it's not as though she has any unique qualification for the job.
But she'd earned this post. She'd applied, and interviewed, and thrown herself into it as hard as she could, trying to earn her keep.
Sadly, defeated: "I know anyone could do it, but I thought I was good at it."
But the work is the most important part. She's sure of that. There's a war on, and not one over something as petty as land or a butt in a chair. This is a war for the future of the world, it matters. Far more than her hands, at any rate.
"What," she starts, and then reconsiders, and shuts her mouth. Tries harder to puzzle through what Stephen could possibly mean by that,
and comes up with an answer she visibly hates, sitting up straighter in her seat.
"But I'm good at it! I can stop worrying about my hands, I won't pay attention to the itching any more. I—I worked—"
Ness trails off, self-conscious, and slowly slumps in her seat. If Stephen thinks she shouldn't be Quartermaster if she's unwell, no one in their right mind would listen to her instead of him. Riftwatch got by without a Quartermaster for a while, it could do so again—and anyway, it's not as though she has any unique qualification for the job.
But she'd earned this post. She'd applied, and interviewed, and thrown herself into it as hard as she could, trying to earn her keep.
Sadly, defeated: "I know anyone could do it, but I thought I was good at it."
Edited (typos and phrasing!!) 2024-12-18 05:07 (UTC)
( And just as she predicted, there’s not a beat of hesitation as Strange agrees: )
Good idea. You and I, ( two of the most long-standing rifter mages present, now that Wysteria’s encamped in Orzammar, ) I suspect we’re at a bit of a disadvantage if we don’t have that familiarity, compared to locals who know the poison better. Know to recognise the sensation of it, maybe even learn to push back against the effects.
Other rifters— ( Tav and Tavane, she might already know all the details via Rowntree but he keeps it vague to be on the safe side, ) have already been on magebane to suppress their abilities, but I’ve never experienced it personally, myself.
Good idea. You and I, ( two of the most long-standing rifter mages present, now that Wysteria’s encamped in Orzammar, ) I suspect we’re at a bit of a disadvantage if we don’t have that familiarity, compared to locals who know the poison better. Know to recognise the sensation of it, maybe even learn to push back against the effects.
Other rifters— ( Tav and Tavane, she might already know all the details via Rowntree but he keeps it vague to be on the safe side, ) have already been on magebane to suppress their abilities, but I’ve never experienced it personally, myself.
Strange’s interest piques even sharper, filing that terminology away: isskari. “What does that involve?” he asks, still genuinely intrigued. “Examining enchantments, categorising them, deciding what to use and what not to? But you’re not a mage.”
The chains would’ve been pretty noticeable.
“And honestly, I’d probably like the Qun to make your own as well.” This is possibly a fairly radical and indelicate position to take; this world is in delicate political balance and Strange sometimes wanders into it like a wrecking ball. But: “The more people that have access to such technology, I’m hoping the sooner other medical advancements can follow. It’s not a bullet, or a bomb. It’s— research, analysis, understanding the building blocks of our reality. I think that’s a universal good. Fewer people dead of fever is fewer people dead of fever.”
The chains would’ve been pretty noticeable.
“And honestly, I’d probably like the Qun to make your own as well.” This is possibly a fairly radical and indelicate position to take; this world is in delicate political balance and Strange sometimes wanders into it like a wrecking ball. But: “The more people that have access to such technology, I’m hoping the sooner other medical advancements can follow. It’s not a bullet, or a bomb. It’s— research, analysis, understanding the building blocks of our reality. I think that’s a universal good. Fewer people dead of fever is fewer people dead of fever.”
Edited 2024-12-18 21:48 (UTC)
“You are very good at it, Ennaris,” Stephen says. Against all his instincts — a comforting gesture rare and alien from him — he reaches out and lays his own scarred hand over hers. A reassuring squeeze of the hand she can still feel. He’ll undo the cuff eventually, but not just yet; he can’t have Ness distracted from this conversation by that pain in the arm once it resurfaces.
“I’m the biggest fucking hypocrite,” the swearing is a sign that he’s letting some more of the formality fall away, he is speaking to her as a teacher and a mentor and the Head Healer and perhaps, finally, as a friend, “but if there is one thing I know professionally, it’s that the body is a machine like any other. Your brain quite literally deteriorates with sleep deprivation. The body requires maintenance, and it can wholly break down if you push it, yourself, too hard without rest and healing.”
It’s very do as I say and not as I do, but still. It’s worth an attempt.
And then, awkwardly feeling his way through the conversation, away from the familiar territory of medical advice and over to something even more delicate: “And Sarrux was… it was a lot, for one of your first combat missions. Needing to take some time to recover doesn’t make you bad at your job.”
“I’m the biggest fucking hypocrite,” the swearing is a sign that he’s letting some more of the formality fall away, he is speaking to her as a teacher and a mentor and the Head Healer and perhaps, finally, as a friend, “but if there is one thing I know professionally, it’s that the body is a machine like any other. Your brain quite literally deteriorates with sleep deprivation. The body requires maintenance, and it can wholly break down if you push it, yourself, too hard without rest and healing.”
It’s very do as I say and not as I do, but still. It’s worth an attempt.
And then, awkwardly feeling his way through the conversation, away from the familiar territory of medical advice and over to something even more delicate: “And Sarrux was… it was a lot, for one of your first combat missions. Needing to take some time to recover doesn’t make you bad at your job.”
It’s a relief to come,
in that: it feels a little bit like a miracle. It’s a relief to find that being with him still feels like this — that she still feels like herself, that figuring out how to fit together is (still) a solvable problem. It’s a lot of things, and it’s also just: that tell-tale tightness in her belly and her thighs, the arch of her back, beads of sweat between her breasts and under his hand. It’s: gasping because she didn’t realise she was holding her breath, twisting her fingers in the bedding, burying her face in her arms and concentrating on not immediately slumping to the bedding while he still needs her hips where they are.
He’s already said it, and it hasn’t been news to her, but it still feels as if it merits— “I missed you,” ragged where she hasn’t caught her breath, in no hurry to do so.
They have so many mornings spread out in front of them, but this one is going to stay with her for a while— a good morning.
in that: it feels a little bit like a miracle. It’s a relief to find that being with him still feels like this — that she still feels like herself, that figuring out how to fit together is (still) a solvable problem. It’s a lot of things, and it’s also just: that tell-tale tightness in her belly and her thighs, the arch of her back, beads of sweat between her breasts and under his hand. It’s: gasping because she didn’t realise she was holding her breath, twisting her fingers in the bedding, burying her face in her arms and concentrating on not immediately slumping to the bedding while he still needs her hips where they are.
He’s already said it, and it hasn’t been news to her, but it still feels as if it merits— “I missed you,” ragged where she hasn’t caught her breath, in no hurry to do so.
They have so many mornings spread out in front of them, but this one is going to stay with her for a while— a good morning.
It’s coming and coming back to each other, it’s those last few thrusts before his orgasm topples after her. He pulls out and collapses to the mattress, lying on his side to face Gwenaëlle and simply look at her, taking her in, adoring, memorising and re-memorising the angle of her cheek and turn of her mouth and glint of her eyes. Their legs are entwined, a knee against hers, another complicated sticky tangle of limbs and ensuring he’s out-of-the-way. Lying together afterwards, pleasantly warm and pliant; the sunlight’s still dappling through the houseboat windows, fracturing through her wings.
Stephen leans in and kisses her shoulder, lingering and content to linger. It’s a holiday. Maybe they’ll wind up together again later; maybe she’ll start trying to tinker through the puzzle-box and he’ll settle his mouth between her legs to cheekily distract her from it. It’s simply nice; to feel more like themselves again, and to know that things both have changed and haven’t changed.
It’s a good morning. They’ve got time.
Stephen leans in and kisses her shoulder, lingering and content to linger. It’s a holiday. Maybe they’ll wind up together again later; maybe she’ll start trying to tinker through the puzzle-box and he’ll settle his mouth between her legs to cheekily distract her from it. It’s simply nice; to feel more like themselves again, and to know that things both have changed and haven’t changed.
It’s a good morning. They’ve got time.
I’m aware that others before us experimented simply for the sake of what we now discuss, ( familiarity rather than particular suppression, ) and I do see the wisdom in it. I imagine it to be a disorienting experience, regardless of—
Well, if I were to resist magebane under such circumstances as one might strongly wish to, I would have little bettered my situation in any meaningful way. But to think clearly under those circumstances would be essential.
Well, if I were to resist magebane under such circumstances as one might strongly wish to, I would have little bettered my situation in any meaningful way. But to think clearly under those circumstances would be essential.
Exactly.
( Quick and immediate as he was to agree, he’s still mulling over part of it, and: )
Was there anything in particular which brought on Enchanter Isaac’s proposal? Why now?
( Quick and immediate as he was to agree, he’s still mulling over part of it, and: )
Was there anything in particular which brought on Enchanter Isaac’s proposal? Why now?
If his goal was to avoid distracting her from the conversation, he's failed miserably: the second his hand touches hers, Ness's eyes snap to it, and a buzzing sound starts in her ears, low at first but growing. The last time she'd been touched by anyone as more than an introduction, or a bit of glancing contact—was it Cedric, a few weeks ago in the Quartermaster's office? Did that count? If it didn't count, it was Gwenaëlle, throwing herself into her lap in a fit of dramatics. And if that didn't count, it was Cedric again, months ago, when she was new to Thedas and still afraid of her magic. People don't touch her, they never have.
Stephen's hand is warm. She can feel the scars on his palm, the rough and damaged skin. It trembles overtop of hers, just a little, but he still squeezes so gently and hasn't let go. She's counted seconds, certain he'll pull away eventually, but second after second passes and his hand is still there. Eventually she has to actually engage with the conversation they're having, which necessitates navigating back through everything he said while she was desperately occupied.
"If I don't push myself through it—I'm only worth what I bring to the organization, Doctor. No one will care for me, about me, if I'm not delivering some kind of results."
The thing is, Ness knows how it sounds, even as she says it. Her face scrunches with a distaste for melodrama, for irrationally emotional thinking, but—it feels true, also, in a way most of her more melodramatic thoughts don't once she's said them out loud.
"Sarrux was..." she trails off, far away, before she abruptly forces herself back into the conversation again. "I can stop thinking about it. I'll ignore it. I want to keep my job, please."
Stephen's hand is warm. She can feel the scars on his palm, the rough and damaged skin. It trembles overtop of hers, just a little, but he still squeezes so gently and hasn't let go. She's counted seconds, certain he'll pull away eventually, but second after second passes and his hand is still there. Eventually she has to actually engage with the conversation they're having, which necessitates navigating back through everything he said while she was desperately occupied.
"If I don't push myself through it—I'm only worth what I bring to the organization, Doctor. No one will care for me, about me, if I'm not delivering some kind of results."
The thing is, Ness knows how it sounds, even as she says it. Her face scrunches with a distaste for melodrama, for irrationally emotional thinking, but—it feels true, also, in a way most of her more melodramatic thoughts don't once she's said them out loud.
"Sarrux was..." she trails off, far away, before she abruptly forces herself back into the conversation again. "I can stop thinking about it. I'll ignore it. I want to keep my job, please."
Stephen pauses. Squeezes her hand one more time before letting go and leaning back, straightening up in his seat. The look he gives her is— not incredulous or pitying, exactly, but there’s a question mark in his gaze. This isn’t territory he’s particularly good at wrangling, the emotional delicacies of it, but:
“Ennaris,” he says, going straight for the practicalities, “I’m not the seneschal. You’re not losing your job.”
“Ennaris,” he says, going straight for the practicalities, “I’m not the seneschal. You’re not losing your job.”
( Eurgh that sounds like it’s going to verge far too closely to politics again, so Strange banks sharply back to the original topic. )
Right. Well. I can supervise your dosage and recovery as needed, and take some notes on the experience. Would you be willing to do the same for me? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. With—
( Who does he trust the most? Gwenaëlle, of course, and she’s been learning more about field medicine and medical care and how the body works, but the truth remains: they only have the one proper capital-H healer on-staff. ) With Isaac himself on-call, perhaps, in case something goes awry.
Right. Well. I can supervise your dosage and recovery as needed, and take some notes on the experience. Would you be willing to do the same for me? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. With—
( Who does he trust the most? Gwenaëlle, of course, and she’s been learning more about field medicine and medical care and how the body works, but the truth remains: they only have the one proper capital-H healer on-staff. ) With Isaac himself on-call, perhaps, in case something goes awry.
Of course, ( is a ready agreement, both to assisting dr strange himself and to isaac’s likely involvement. )
As unfortunate as it would be to discover an allergy, preferable to discovering it at the hands of a more malicious actor, I think.
( it’s not not a joke. )
As unfortunate as it would be to discover an allergy, preferable to discovering it at the hands of a more malicious actor, I think.
( it’s not not a joke. )
"Must fisherman sprout gills?" You don't know a fire by its kindling, her Salit would say. Riftwatch is built on tinder. "I take this magic, I take it apart. Record effects, write what I have seen. What others have."
Tonight she'll write, in the back of her mind and too precious for paper: What is a bullet?
"My eyes —" Elven. "— Are not as yours. And I am Seheron, Imperium tests on us. So I see much. So I am here now. To see if better can be made than bombs."
Fewer dead. Worth the work, to clear this of the risks.
"I wish it goes faster. Slow is point. It is slower, this way, without magic. It is safer." A pause. "I am not from safe place."
Tonight she'll write, in the back of her mind and too precious for paper: What is a bullet?
"My eyes —" Elven. "— Are not as yours. And I am Seheron, Imperium tests on us. So I see much. So I am here now. To see if better can be made than bombs."
Fewer dead. Worth the work, to clear this of the risks.
"I wish it goes faster. Slow is point. It is slower, this way, without magic. It is safer." A pause. "I am not from safe place."
That goes for any unexpected allergy anywhere. Choking to death and throat swelling up over a peanut at a diplomatic dinner overseas? Ignoble end for an agent of Riftwatch.
( True enough, and also not not a joke. )
( True enough, and also not not a joke. )
On such occasions it’s best to have no known allergies, either.
( yeah, that’s a joke about assassination. petrana has lived and breathed court for the better part of her life; it rather warps the sense of humour. on the bright side, it’s definitely a joke and not earnest enough to trap him into talking about the perils of politics,
and a good enough segue for a thought that’s occurred to her presently: )
Madame de Fonce, before she left us for Orzammar, also advised me to consider most seriously the matter of— the removal of my anchor-shard. ( and when she had gone, and the ghoulish question of borrowing her prosthetic was off the table, and her huge imploringly academic eyes were not following petrana’s dithering on the matter, she’s rather avoided thinking about it since. )
I would also appreciate whatever information you could provide me with to consider what pursuing such a course of action would practically entail, in its entirety.
( yeah, that’s a joke about assassination. petrana has lived and breathed court for the better part of her life; it rather warps the sense of humour. on the bright side, it’s definitely a joke and not earnest enough to trap him into talking about the perils of politics,
and a good enough segue for a thought that’s occurred to her presently: )
Madame de Fonce, before she left us for Orzammar, also advised me to consider most seriously the matter of— the removal of my anchor-shard. ( and when she had gone, and the ghoulish question of borrowing her prosthetic was off the table, and her huge imploringly academic eyes were not following petrana’s dithering on the matter, she’s rather avoided thinking about it since. )
I would also appreciate whatever information you could provide me with to consider what pursuing such a course of action would practically entail, in its entirety.
“You’re the first Qunari I’ve ever met,” Strange says, forthright, his posture straightening a little against the desk. Neither Loxley nor Vlast around the Gallows really counted; their current shapes weren’t their own, and they weren’t part of the culture. “So, apologies if advance if I’m just a world of questions.”
But there was one thing she’d mentioned —
“The Imperium tested on you? What, like magical experimentation?”
He’s aware there might be a language barrier, a cultural barrier, preventing him from fully following, but he’s still locked in.
But there was one thing she’d mentioned —
“The Imperium tested on you? What, like magical experimentation?”
He’s aware there might be a language barrier, a cultural barrier, preventing him from fully following, but he’s still locked in.
( There’s another little beat of hesitation, not the same peevish avoidance when he’s swerving politics, but because why are all the rifter witches asking him to remove their arms —
There’s a rustling of papers, pushing aside some of his work to focus on the conversation better. )
Of course.
( From the get-go it makes a little more sense on the surface: from Petrana’s file he sees that it’s been seven years, far longer than Ennaris has had hers. (Don’t think about Gwenaëlle having had hers even longer.) )
Have you been experiencing any adverse effects from your shard? Beyond the usual.
There’s a rustling of papers, pushing aside some of his work to focus on the conversation better. )
Of course.
( From the get-go it makes a little more sense on the surface: from Petrana’s file he sees that it’s been seven years, far longer than Ennaris has had hers. (Don’t think about Gwenaëlle having had hers even longer.) )
Have you been experiencing any adverse effects from your shard? Beyond the usual.
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