[ The ferromagnetic fragments hidden in the masked thing's robe shiver and rattle: a scalpel, a pair of shears, a bone saw- enough that, were Erik in finer fettle, the looming figure would now be going to pieces. But were that the case, it never would have approached so openly, so boldly.
The flow of thoughts sends the robed thing into a revery, a welcome escape from the tawdry material as it plunges into the intricacies of association that form the constellation of memory. The sophistication of this method is such that it experiences very little empathic bleed, and almost no mnemonic counter-transference. At most, Erik might catch a few fleeting impressions: brittle parchment flaking beneath fingers, the silhouette of a ruined stone structure, a bird's carcass stirring in the dirt. Nothing next to the immediacy of his own recollections.
The shade of Iezabel Sadonna makes a quiet hiss and withdraws her hand before either of them can experience the misfortune of her losing a finger to his teeth. That withered digit would not be tasty, of that you can be certain. She takes a moment to swallow her frustration, teeth grinding behind the mask. What she has seen is important, it just also happens to be irritating. She'd almost forgotten just how fine living can be. But now she wants it back, wants to taste food and feel the breeze and the sun. She wants to sweat and bleed and weep- or at least to have the capacity to do so.
But while that list of allies is short, it is but still too long for her tastes. Too many connections, too many for it to be safe; and those that are close to him are much too close. If she returns, rejuvenated, after having supped on his spirit, she cannot be certain that she won't be found out, not in that settlement of nascent auracles. She left the confines of camp precisely to avoid the stigma of her condition and its cure. She has no taste for irony. She'd rather savor roasted lizard.
If she returns with him, however, she may be able to circumvent that stigma entirely. And then this stalking about the periphery - an already risky resort considering her profound ignorance of this place, and the barriers to which this man's memory clearly attests - might become unnecessary.
For isn't it better to be a hero than a monster? ]
Don't go anywhere, [ she advises him, unnecessarily, as she turns away, moving among the shattered trees, searching for a means of conveyance. ]
And don't die. [ That would just be adding insult to injury.
She returns in good time, dragging an impressively broad frond behind her. She sets it on the ground next to Erik, then shifts to one side of him, lifting a booted foot and applying pressure to his shoulder, urging him, as best she can, onto the big leathery leaf. ]
Be calm, [ she says, even as she gives him a firm shove, ] I'm taking you back.
no subject
The flow of thoughts sends the robed thing into a revery, a welcome escape from the tawdry material as it plunges into the intricacies of association that form the constellation of memory. The sophistication of this method is such that it experiences very little empathic bleed, and almost no mnemonic counter-transference. At most, Erik might catch a few fleeting impressions: brittle parchment flaking beneath fingers, the silhouette of a ruined stone structure, a bird's carcass stirring in the dirt. Nothing next to the immediacy of his own recollections.
The shade of Iezabel Sadonna makes a quiet hiss and withdraws her hand before either of them can experience the misfortune of her losing a finger to his teeth. That withered digit would not be tasty, of that you can be certain. She takes a moment to swallow her frustration, teeth grinding behind the mask. What she has seen is important, it just also happens to be irritating. She'd almost forgotten just how fine living can be. But now she wants it back, wants to taste food and feel the breeze and the sun. She wants to sweat and bleed and weep- or at least to have the capacity to do so.
But while that list of allies is short, it is but still too long for her tastes. Too many connections, too many for it to be safe; and those that are close to him are much too close. If she returns, rejuvenated, after having supped on his spirit, she cannot be certain that she won't be found out, not in that settlement of nascent auracles. She left the confines of camp precisely to avoid the stigma of her condition and its cure. She has no taste for irony. She'd rather savor roasted lizard.
If she returns with him, however, she may be able to circumvent that stigma entirely. And then this stalking about the periphery - an already risky resort considering her profound ignorance of this place, and the barriers to which this man's memory clearly attests - might become unnecessary.
For isn't it better to be a hero than a monster? ]
Don't go anywhere, [ she advises him, unnecessarily, as she turns away, moving among the shattered trees, searching for a means of conveyance. ]
And don't die. [ That would just be adding insult to injury.
She returns in good time, dragging an impressively broad frond behind her. She sets it on the ground next to Erik, then shifts to one side of him, lifting a booted foot and applying pressure to his shoulder, urging him, as best she can, onto the big leathery leaf. ]
Be calm, [ she says, even as she gives him a firm shove, ] I'm taking you back.