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[dissono]

for private scenes and correspondence.
non-urgent crystal messages will be responded to by letter at his earliest convenience.

Comments

[limier]

Silence. She watches his throat. Wheels creak, hoove strike; the muffled blur of so much separate conversation filters around and between them. Clanking and rustling and cursing at rocks in the path —

Speak. She ought to speak.

"Your knife." An echo. Perhaps she means thank you, only she doesn’t mean that at all. Thank you is for letters and handshakes and salons. The false bones of courtesy. "Fast."

His knife. Can’t say whether it should be better — any better than Gwenaelle’s own fingers curled about the grip, and doesn't that prove she’s the nerve for it? They’ve both the nerve for it, may they not again need it. Her posture slips in place,

"It called itself Grief." After a fashion. Hardly her first demon; but the first of its kind, "It must be terrible, to meet so often in the Fade."

What are quiet dreams to a mage?

[dissono]

A lot of things are new to him, out of the circles. In the world. Back in the company of other people. Pursuing a relationship that's more than a rushed fumble the Templars were never as blind to as all that. It's within him to give this much, when he can see how needful—

He thinks he might be no more equipped to speak on it further if he were better equipped to speak at all.

Least of all on his dreams.

It's a blindly done thing, how he reaches out abruptly to press her knee with his hand—a warm weight, curving familiar, intended reassurance. Reassurance because the next thing he does when he releases that grip is press his knees, urge his horse forward, riding ahead.

The road is scattered enough with Inquisition agents that he doesn't need to go far to be alone, and still surrounded.

[limier]

A moment's hesitation, the odd stutter of motion that presses her up and ready for pursuit, and —

Right. She settles back in, grinds teeth against lip to ignore the irritated snort of the creature beneath her. Brushes fingers against its shorn mane. The spine of new stubble before hands, heat.

Don't leave, and the space between request and command is the chance to. Leave, but come back.