[ And Viktor seems content to linger right where he is, unfussed with efficiency when closeness is a far greater prize. He leans in indulgent as Emet-Selch speaks, stealing a bit more of his space, liking the way his chest rumbles in time with his voice. Not hard to guess at the direction of his day, though the news does cultivate more difficult questions than satisfying answers. Viktor tips his chin up, brows high on his forehead, and runs through a few of the most pressing queries flitting through his mind.
None of them matter right now, ultimately. The children are alive, even if one old Ascian is not. There is no urgency in Hades's voice, only a day weary weight on his features that Viktor admits to himself is quite charming. Something, he finds, he wishes to soothe, not exacerbate. ]
Then let's put some food in you, f-first and foremost.
[ Viktor drifts away, but not before freeing a still chilly hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face. It is, he thinks, trying not to waste too much more time, unbearably nice to have home be a person. ]
Thank you for organizing supper. [ Finally, as he peels himself out of outer robes, he sweeps over to the sink basin to wash his hands. ] I was... not successful, no. [ After drying, it's to the table, where he first picks up a square of hard cheese and pops it in his mouth, then holds his palm over the kettle. Of course, he talks with his mouth full. ] It seems there is little of her l-left in her flowers. They were once quite potent, I've been told.
[ Viktor pauses to press his awareness to the aether of the tea kettle. Metal, water, leaves become as thread in his mind, a sensation that, after moons of practice, is only just becoming mundane. He picks at individual strands, allows information to spill across his senses - a story laid out in abstract, for him to interpret. Reading tea leaves, he muses to himself, decides there is nothing untoward about the contents of the kettle (thanks the stars that his bit of effort at good will was not turned against them), and pours cups for Emet-Selch and then himself. ]
Now, they are barely more than ordinary blooms. What is left of their power is spent on persisting through the c-cold, near as I can tell. I've a few theories on that, I s-suppose. [ He sits, looks to Emet-Selch, waiting for him to join. ] But now, 'tis all the more necessary I see her in the Sea.
no subject
[ And Viktor seems content to linger right where he is, unfussed with efficiency when closeness is a far greater prize. He leans in indulgent as Emet-Selch speaks, stealing a bit more of his space, liking the way his chest rumbles in time with his voice. Not hard to guess at the direction of his day, though the news does cultivate more difficult questions than satisfying answers. Viktor tips his chin up, brows high on his forehead, and runs through a few of the most pressing queries flitting through his mind.
None of them matter right now, ultimately. The children are alive, even if one old Ascian is not. There is no urgency in Hades's voice, only a day weary weight on his features that Viktor admits to himself is quite charming. Something, he finds, he wishes to soothe, not exacerbate. ]
Then let's put some food in you, f-first and foremost.
[ Viktor drifts away, but not before freeing a still chilly hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face. It is, he thinks, trying not to waste too much more time, unbearably nice to have home be a person. ]
Thank you for organizing supper. [ Finally, as he peels himself out of outer robes, he sweeps over to the sink basin to wash his hands. ] I was... not successful, no. [ After drying, it's to the table, where he first picks up a square of hard cheese and pops it in his mouth, then holds his palm over the kettle. Of course, he talks with his mouth full. ] It seems there is little of her l-left in her flowers. They were once quite potent, I've been told.
[ Viktor pauses to press his awareness to the aether of the tea kettle. Metal, water, leaves become as thread in his mind, a sensation that, after moons of practice, is only just becoming mundane. He picks at individual strands, allows information to spill across his senses - a story laid out in abstract, for him to interpret. Reading tea leaves, he muses to himself, decides there is nothing untoward about the contents of the kettle (thanks the stars that his bit of effort at good will was not turned against them), and pours cups for Emet-Selch and then himself. ]
Now, they are barely more than ordinary blooms. What is left of their power is spent on persisting through the c-cold, near as I can tell. I've a few theories on that, I s-suppose. [ He sits, looks to Emet-Selch, waiting for him to join. ] But now, 'tis all the more necessary I see her in the Sea.