( Half the gallery of this world's bestiary is one and the same deformed, claw-spouting, feral creature to him — but then, he need not show himself so crude. A nod, painstaking, poorly calculated.
And then, the waters. He steels himself, line of his back learned, rigid. Cloud Recesses have taught him the way of dipping into a cold stream, tumbling and coiling, until the whole of himself is dainty and small, no better than a babe. Until each breath in the fierce iciness no longer stings.
He thinks, for a moment, hands loitering by his belt, to offend modesty and shed the outermost of his seven layers in a single, timid concession to lace and embroidery. Reconsiders at the last moment, not even troubling himself to remove his sword beyond slinging it lower on his hip, so it does not impede the swim. )
My people care after restorative cold streams. ( Beautiful, renown. The chill so often numbs and pleases. This one, he knows, will sooner stiffen his bones. ) These waters will not heal.
( Much sooner, they'll curdle his skin. He plunges first, waving Wrathion to follow, aiming for the centre of the river's bed — if he must subject himself to this, let him at least shorten the path, tighten the need to rise up for air again, hasten this process —
...supervised by the golden, foreign eyes of a... woman, in the depths. This turns, when he flusters, fumbles and waves Wrathion over, it's with urgency and a lack of recourse. Underwater, he cannot shriek. )
no subject
( Half the gallery of this world's bestiary is one and the same deformed, claw-spouting, feral creature to him — but then, he need not show himself so crude. A nod, painstaking, poorly calculated.
And then, the waters. He steels himself, line of his back learned, rigid. Cloud Recesses have taught him the way of dipping into a cold stream, tumbling and coiling, until the whole of himself is dainty and small, no better than a babe. Until each breath in the fierce iciness no longer stings.
He thinks, for a moment, hands loitering by his belt, to offend modesty and shed the outermost of his seven layers in a single, timid concession to lace and embroidery. Reconsiders at the last moment, not even troubling himself to remove his sword beyond slinging it lower on his hip, so it does not impede the swim. )
My people care after restorative cold streams. ( Beautiful, renown. The chill so often numbs and pleases. This one, he knows, will sooner stiffen his bones. ) These waters will not heal.
( Much sooner, they'll curdle his skin. He plunges first, waving Wrathion to follow, aiming for the centre of the river's bed — if he must subject himself to this, let him at least shorten the path, tighten the need to rise up for air again, hasten this process —
...supervised by the golden, foreign eyes of a... woman, in the depths. This turns, when he flusters, fumbles and waves Wrathion over, it's with urgency and a lack of recourse. Underwater, he cannot shriek. )