[ She's braced for an argument - she's famished, after all, for someone to vent her shrieking rage against - but he raises none. He does not balk, and while the order she has given him is rather tall given that every detail of their environment is a hindrance, he blunders gamely on. For a moment her own curiosity keeps her tame, and she watches as he seeks to do exactly as she has bid, without question.
And he doesn't, she must acknowledge, blunder - he has some understanding that she is not likely to tolerate a half-competent job, no matter how unaccommodating the ground beneath them. Her eyes dart after his hands, and then back up to his face, the bright jade narrowing as she measures him again.
What in any of the seven hells could a man gain from being guileless and kind in this place? He's gentle in word as well as with his smoothing hands, and she cannot fathom why. He is remorseful, apparently genuine even in that, and if she'd been born the lioness she was always meant to be, her golden coat would be bristling, ears laid flat. But there is also, beneath her confusion and the annoyance it kindles, a deep and abiding pleasure, too. To be obeyed this way, to be treated to such deferential apology, to have been bestowed the company of a man who himself moves with a remarkably feline graceβ
But then he speaks of magic, and her appreciation is spiced again with suspicion. Magic? This word conjures only slithering visions, and as a chill bounds up her spine, she tips her chin, elevating herself above such barbaric talk. And yet - ]
You command no magic. [ This is much simpler than inquiring what sort of magic he seems to think belongs to him, and while vanity will not allow her to fawn over the possibility, her eyes give away a hungry interest, much as they betray her approval for the work his hands do with that dreadful bedroll. She is derisive, if she must be anything at all. It will not do to have her heart springing toward hope. ]
Was the summoning of pillows the height of your wizardry? This is twice the insult of the first.
no subject
And he doesn't, she must acknowledge, blunder - he has some understanding that she is not likely to tolerate a half-competent job, no matter how unaccommodating the ground beneath them. Her eyes dart after his hands, and then back up to his face, the bright jade narrowing as she measures him again.
What in any of the seven hells could a man gain from being guileless and kind in this place? He's gentle in word as well as with his smoothing hands, and she cannot fathom why. He is remorseful, apparently genuine even in that, and if she'd been born the lioness she was always meant to be, her golden coat would be bristling, ears laid flat. But there is also, beneath her confusion and the annoyance it kindles, a deep and abiding pleasure, too. To be obeyed this way, to be treated to such deferential apology, to have been bestowed the company of a man who himself moves with a remarkably feline graceβ
But then he speaks of magic, and her appreciation is spiced again with suspicion. Magic? This word conjures only slithering visions, and as a chill bounds up her spine, she tips her chin, elevating herself above such barbaric talk. And yet - ]
You command no magic. [ This is much simpler than inquiring what sort of magic he seems to think belongs to him, and while vanity will not allow her to fawn over the possibility, her eyes give away a hungry interest, much as they betray her approval for the work his hands do with that dreadful bedroll. She is derisive, if she must be anything at all. It will not do to have her heart springing toward hope. ]
Was the summoning of pillows the height of your wizardry? This is twice the insult of the first.