[ There are always eyes for green hands, for foreign name, and dress, and speech.
So — himself a stranger to the Marches (to four years outside a tower), he's taken the opposite tack: Dark colours, sturdy cloth. Practical. Distinctly not a robe. You could run in it, and make it more than thirty yards before tripping onto the point of a sword.
His best, at least, since Montsimmard. But he's shaved, and the shirt's clean of any healer's stains, and there's a teapot and blanket tucked into a corner of the garden with absolute incongruity to the distant clash of swords, the salt-and-seagull-shit smell of the air. ]
Lakshmibai, [ He stands to greet her, dips head and shoulders and moves to take the plate, clear her path. ] You look positively a sunrise.
[ Closer to noon now, and the bustle of the place stilled a short time, shovels and rakes at rest. The ground here, reinvigorated, blooms in something a touch beyond the summer itself; verdant and swollen with life. Little like the straggling rooftop rows tucked here and there of the city beyond. ]
no subject
So — himself a stranger to the Marches (to four years outside a tower), he's taken the opposite tack: Dark colours, sturdy cloth. Practical. Distinctly not a robe. You could run in it, and make it more than thirty yards before tripping onto the point of a sword.
His best, at least, since Montsimmard. But he's shaved, and the shirt's clean of any healer's stains, and there's a teapot and blanket tucked into a corner of the garden with absolute incongruity to the distant clash of swords, the salt-and-seagull-shit smell of the air. ]
Lakshmibai, [ He stands to greet her, dips head and shoulders and moves to take the plate, clear her path. ] You look positively a sunrise.
[ Closer to noon now, and the bustle of the place stilled a short time, shovels and rakes at rest. The ground here, reinvigorated, blooms in something a touch beyond the summer itself; verdant and swollen with life. Little like the straggling rooftop rows tucked here and there of the city beyond. ]