[ She stretches her arms in front of her to inspect. There's a little colour that isn't just a sort of lobstery pink settled in her skin, but not much, as if any pigmentation were to be collected in little freckle deposits for a later time. ]
I will have new ones, [ she says, like she's resigned to it. ] Et toi.
[ She folds herself back up again, back to her fidgetty task of beads on a bracelet, picking out a simple enough pattern. They don't sell for the effort they take, but it's a good means of getting rid of pieces she doesn't have more inspired purposes for.
There's a suspicious glance sideways. Aware of his presence in a sense that transcends just a sort of semi-amusing shem shape nearby her. (Not the case in battles; they have fought within the same vicinity twice, now, and he had been, then, a point of reliability, movement with a sword, demon gore, a blindspot covered. But every other time.) She can smell him, for one thing, because everyone sort of stinks a little out here. Sweat collecting in clothes, and desert dust trapping itself in linen.
But it's not. Bad. Vaguely intimate in a way she doesn't associate with shems. Maybe a little bit Martel on the occasions he has bodily lifted her out of harms way, but he doesn't count -- and then there are Orlesian nobles, who mask their faces and also their bodies in acrid perfumes and smokes.
This close, she studies him. The gingery grain growing along his jaw. The easy relaxation that is settling in his face. She should probably draw something on it. ]
no subject
I will have new ones, [ she says, like she's resigned to it. ] Et toi.
[ She folds herself back up again, back to her fidgetty task of beads on a bracelet, picking out a simple enough pattern. They don't sell for the effort they take, but it's a good means of getting rid of pieces she doesn't have more inspired purposes for.
There's a suspicious glance sideways. Aware of his presence in a sense that transcends just a sort of semi-amusing shem shape nearby her. (Not the case in battles; they have fought within the same vicinity twice, now, and he had been, then, a point of reliability, movement with a sword, demon gore, a blindspot covered. But every other time.) She can smell him, for one thing, because everyone sort of stinks a little out here. Sweat collecting in clothes, and desert dust trapping itself in linen.
But it's not. Bad. Vaguely intimate in a way she doesn't associate with shems. Maybe a little bit Martel on the occasions he has bodily lifted her out of harms way, but he doesn't count -- and then there are Orlesian nobles, who mask their faces and also their bodies in acrid perfumes and smokes.
This close, she studies him. The gingery grain growing along his jaw. The easy relaxation that is settling in his face. She should probably draw something on it. ]