[ on her next step, Rudbeckia's right foot catches the heel of her left. she stumbles over herself and lurches forward, which she can pretend to blame for the way her heart slams against her ribs. it takes her a moment to realise that there's a reason she didn't fall: that, instinctively, she has caught herself with a hand on her walking companion's forearm. her companion who has introduced himself in that steady voice—the kind of low and self-assured tones of someone who would never put himself on his hands and knees for another—as Set, god of the desert and war. god. a god? below her hand, he is warm to the touch like any other person. but he— ]
G— G-G-G— [ as if fearing that his skin will burn her in some kind of holy wrath or rebuke, she yanks her hand off of him and clutches it to her chest. (or fearing something more likely: a cold glare looking down on her and a hand raised to strike her.) ] Ah! I-I'm sorry, my lord!
[ to pre-empt whatever punishment might come, Rudbeckia takes a step back and, in a reflex decision, bows at the waist. pity seemed to work in her favour before; even if she doesn't know how to behave or speak properly in front of a god, sincerity should count for something, shouldn't it? ]
no subject
G— G-G-G— [ as if fearing that his skin will burn her in some kind of holy wrath or rebuke, she yanks her hand off of him and clutches it to her chest. (or fearing something more likely: a cold glare looking down on her and a hand raised to strike her.) ] Ah! I-I'm sorry, my lord!
[ to pre-empt whatever punishment might come, Rudbeckia takes a step back and, in a reflex decision, bows at the waist. pity seemed to work in her favour before; even if she doesn't know how to behave or speak properly in front of a god, sincerity should count for something, shouldn't it? ]