He breathes out. There is a measure of management inherent to any troubled man with a knife, however thorough your faith in their restraint. Isaac doesn't think it worth retrieving Guenievere's portrait — he less thinks it being fetched for their sake. If it keeps him out of the room,
Clammy skin releases hers.
"Changing them," He prompts, still thinking of Leander; thinking of antlers. "Into what?"
He turns to wedge a chair into door. It won't hold for any length of time, but even toting frames, Felix is altogether too quiet for this discussion. She hasn't shown him this other thing, and there are vanishingly few reasons to show Isaac instead. He expects runes, the aftermath of some ugly, carved ritual. Perhaps a gleam of Anchor, or lyrium; the curl of Fade-touched flame. She disrobes, he waits.
(For the best he hasn't yet shoved a hand in her mouth.)
no subject
Clammy skin releases hers.
"Changing them," He prompts, still thinking of Leander; thinking of antlers. "Into what?"
He turns to wedge a chair into door. It won't hold for any length of time, but even toting frames, Felix is altogether too quiet for this discussion. She hasn't shown him this other thing, and there are vanishingly few reasons to show Isaac instead. He expects runes, the aftermath of some ugly, carved ritual. Perhaps a gleam of Anchor, or lyrium; the curl of Fade-touched flame. She disrobes, he waits.
(For the best he hasn't yet shoved a hand in her mouth.)