[ That seems to be the end of it. Honest and final, noncommittal... automatic, falling back into old habits; say enough to fill silence before someone smarter sets in with suppositions. It takes Viktor a moment to realize the question was not rhetorical - that a proper response is expected. He glances up from his meal, caught off guard, gaze skirting the ceiling as he considers. ]
They are all of them... afraid in a way that holds them from action, but... He lashes out at them over trivialities. I saw him s-strike a girl over his meal being wrong. Hard enough to draw blood, and- [ And it'd taken every ilm of his self control not to teach the spoiled little snot a lesson in front of his court. But what a mess that would have been. And these people, they do not need a Warrior of Light right now, and certainly not one who cannot linger here long. ] -their anger burns hotter by the day, and I think he knows it. That rage needs must go somewhere.
[ He tips his head as though straining to hear a distant sound. Lifts a hand, touching each finger to his thumb in a gesture that looks a little like someone browsing a card catalogue. Something comes into focus. Not visions, but feeling, and each touch of finger to thumb brings it all into sharper focus. He grasps for it, finding thread, to no great surprise. And in that thread, a thousand more - a tidal wave of maybes and perhapses and what ifs. Too much, too loud to glean anything but glimpses. Viktor blinks. Releasing the ethereal thing he holds, and coming away with fragments of what may be. ]
'Twould be kinder for everyone if the tea took him. More confusion, but... other options are... bloodier.
[ His stomach growls, and he finally dunks a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth. Chews, swallows, and scoops up a fork. Which he then uses to aid in coaxing his words, flicking it about like a baton, rather than eating. ]
As for our hero and the risk of... rejoining, you mean something like the veil you've s-settled between you and I, aye? 'Tis a brief meeting I intend. I am sure she'd rather r-rest, and I mean only to trade, well, flowers. Hers- even for a time after her death, her flowers were of Water. Not L-Light. [ Viktor settles, hands landing on the table, attention focused on Emet-Selch. ] I know that- I know I am no scholar. I know not the details of arcane theory, but... I've- I've a feeling. A-and, I intend for each of us to graft the other's lily onto their soul. I intend to- to make a weave.
no subject
[ That seems to be the end of it. Honest and final, noncommittal... automatic, falling back into old habits; say enough to fill silence before someone smarter sets in with suppositions. It takes Viktor a moment to realize the question was not rhetorical - that a proper response is expected. He glances up from his meal, caught off guard, gaze skirting the ceiling as he considers. ]
They are all of them... afraid in a way that holds them from action, but... He lashes out at them over trivialities. I saw him s-strike a girl over his meal being wrong. Hard enough to draw blood, and- [ And it'd taken every ilm of his self control not to teach the spoiled little snot a lesson in front of his court. But what a mess that would have been. And these people, they do not need a Warrior of Light right now, and certainly not one who cannot linger here long. ] -their anger burns hotter by the day, and I think he knows it. That rage needs must go somewhere.
[ He tips his head as though straining to hear a distant sound. Lifts a hand, touching each finger to his thumb in a gesture that looks a little like someone browsing a card catalogue. Something comes into focus. Not visions, but feeling, and each touch of finger to thumb brings it all into sharper focus. He grasps for it, finding thread, to no great surprise. And in that thread, a thousand more - a tidal wave of maybes and perhapses and what ifs. Too much, too loud to glean anything but glimpses. Viktor blinks. Releasing the ethereal thing he holds, and coming away with fragments of what may be. ]
'Twould be kinder for everyone if the tea took him. More confusion, but... other options are... bloodier.
[ His stomach growls, and he finally dunks a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth. Chews, swallows, and scoops up a fork. Which he then uses to aid in coaxing his words, flicking it about like a baton, rather than eating. ]
As for our hero and the risk of... rejoining, you mean something like the veil you've s-settled between you and I, aye? 'Tis a brief meeting I intend. I am sure she'd rather r-rest, and I mean only to trade, well, flowers. Hers- even for a time after her death, her flowers were of Water. Not L-Light. [ Viktor settles, hands landing on the table, attention focused on Emet-Selch. ] I know that- I know I am no scholar. I know not the details of arcane theory, but... I've- I've a feeling. A-and, I intend for each of us to graft the other's lily onto their soul. I intend to- to make a weave.