Yes, I've taken note. You put great oaks to shame.
( let her self-control be known: she didn't, mercifully, write and lankier too, with perhaps more limbs than sense. let her unhelpful sarcasm also be known: )
Congratulations are in order, I suppose. You forced its bricks to submit to you, with such little effort.
[honestly, the sarcasm is a relief; it means he's actually connected with the right person.]
Drinks are in order. Anywhere but here. My bones put in quite a good deal of effort to get through all that brick and oak, and all the hefty shoulder-patting here might be the proper end of my spine.
I prefer a subtler entrance, myself. Or do you now find unlocking doors and scaling windows too dull?
( there was, of course, no one to ever pry her from the rubble of her own poor decision-making. so, with a sympathy she tries not to dwell or dawdle on: )
If you've need of a rescue, I would hear you say it.
( — well. perhaps not so sympathetic, even as she's moving to stand. )
[he'd like to think that he doesn't need to be either bullied out of self-pity or subtly helped to walk off the restitching of his own bones. he'd also like to think that he'll make it several hours before caving.
( because jude unanimously decided for the both of them that he would be paying, regardless. still, a former spymaster knows well enough how far to prod a bruise before it earns retribution. relentingly, )
Surely you don't need directions to the smoking rubble of my victory.
[but, in a real way, he'll send whatever the magical version of a pin is. he's hobbled himself part of the way toward the nearest ale, after all, before deciding it might be better to just sit on a curb and wait for the cavalry.]
( meaning, logically, that she could scrounge the eyes and ears to manage the task for her — but shadows are oft better received when they're explicitly invited. jude's entrance is not nearly as subtle as she'd otherwise claim preferring; the ragwort steed between the bracing muscles of her thighs lands from its flight on soil with a flourish, fur born from foliage. its mane waves leafily in the wind, more dignified than the dishevel of jude's hair where the breezy sky has brushed through it.
with her descent, it blows away, scattered to the wind like a blown-out dandelion. if she's concerned in the least — which would be irrationally stupid, jude tells herself; magic lends loki a resilience jude had forced her then-mortal body to learn the hard way — it doesn't show. her steps are a steady beat of her boots against dry earth, the spiderspun silk of a black gown trailing unhurriedly on the ground.
it's from behind him she slinks, not deliberately quiet so much as used to being a wraith. she settles a palm on his head, uses it to tip his head back, through the lens of inspecting eyes. too sharp by design, always. )
I see it did not go down without a fight. ( the building, clearly. for the sake of his pride, she dare not say more. except, evenly: ) You've debris in your hair.
[that, at least, is something to smile about while he sits. politeness is always faintly amusing to contemplate.
less amusing to contemplate is the state of himself. true, he'd set his robes to rights, the greens and blacks clearly brushed clean with the unnecessary precision of his gifts--which had been enough to convince the einherjar setting the broken walls to rights again that he didn't bear any minding. that rush of tidying, however, seems to have taken quite a bit out of him, skin a clammier pale than usual and something unhappily tense around the corners of the eyes and lips.
or, well, maybe that was the being thrown through a building. six of one, probably.
he'll be annoyed later, but for now he's too tired to mind that he doesn't notice jude until she's almost on top of him. there's no hiding the slight jump at her touch or the tired tremble in his fingers as he lifts one hand to swat hers away. (the blood on his cheek as clearly been wiped away by hand rather than magic.)]
Debris is all the rage among warriors these days. Really, you're the one who looks foolish without it. [his voice, at least, is as sharp and snappish as ever. (the effort of that isn't doing much for the ash of his complexion.)] Shall we?
( entirely normal statement to make, on an entirely normal day, for the daughter of a redcap. she would not be her father's ugly, violent frankenstein creation if she shied from it. pointedly, her hand returns — as one does, when the swat they've received is as intimidating as a growling kitten's — and, not to be cowed, smears the streak of red further across his cheekbone. seemingly complacent with her handiwork, her hand drops, hovering by her midsection.
two things can be true. the first: he looks like death, like a dead bird dropped at her door. the second: jude suspects he knows it well enough without it needing to be said, and yet. )
Shall we? ( primly, an eyebrow arches up toward her hairline. can you walk, bro. ) Are you intending to replace the blood you've lost with wine?
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bakerstreet2025-01-03 12:06 am
iv. not me popping out of hibernation half a year later ... time is fake
it's a flat circle now come back to my arms <3
🏃♀️ comes running
( let her self-control be known: she didn't, mercifully, write and lankier too, with perhaps more limbs than sense. let her unhelpful sarcasm also be known: )
Congratulations are in order, I suppose. You forced its bricks to submit to you, with such little effort.
( ˘ ³˘)❤
Drinks are in order. Anywhere but here. My bones put in quite a good deal of effort to get through all that brick and oak, and all the hefty shoulder-patting here might be the proper end of my spine.
no subject
( there was, of course, no one to ever pry her from the rubble of her own poor decision-making. so, with a sympathy she tries not to dwell or dawdle on: )
If you've need of a rescue, I would hear you say it.
( — well. perhaps not so sympathetic, even as she's moving to stand. )
no subject
[or just pouting like children, perhaps? who knows.]
"Rescue" and "need" are each entirely overdramatic.
no subject
no subject
and yet, five minutes later:]
I'll pay for your drinks.
no subject
( because jude unanimously decided for the both of them that he would be paying, regardless. still, a former spymaster knows well enough how far to prod a bruise before it earns retribution. relentingly, )
Where is this building you so boldly vanquished?
no subject
[but, in a real way, he'll send whatever the magical version of a pin is. he's hobbled himself part of the way toward the nearest ale, after all, before deciding it might be better to just sit on a curb and wait for the cavalry.]
no subject
( meaning, logically, that she could scrounge the eyes and ears to manage the task for her — but shadows are oft better received when they're explicitly invited. jude's entrance is not nearly as subtle as she'd otherwise claim preferring; the ragwort steed between the bracing muscles of her thighs lands from its flight on soil with a flourish, fur born from foliage. its mane waves leafily in the wind, more dignified than the dishevel of jude's hair where the breezy sky has brushed through it.
with her descent, it blows away, scattered to the wind like a blown-out dandelion. if she's concerned in the least — which would be irrationally stupid, jude tells herself; magic lends loki a resilience jude had forced her then-mortal body to learn the hard way — it doesn't show. her steps are a steady beat of her boots against dry earth, the spiderspun silk of a black gown trailing unhurriedly on the ground.
it's from behind him she slinks, not deliberately quiet so much as used to being a wraith. she settles a palm on his head, uses it to tip his head back, through the lens of inspecting eyes. too sharp by design, always. )
I see it did not go down without a fight. ( the building, clearly. for the sake of his pride, she dare not say more. except, evenly: ) You've debris in your hair.
no subject
less amusing to contemplate is the state of himself. true, he'd set his robes to rights, the greens and blacks clearly brushed clean with the unnecessary precision of his gifts--which had been enough to convince the einherjar setting the broken walls to rights again that he didn't bear any minding. that rush of tidying, however, seems to have taken quite a bit out of him, skin a clammier pale than usual and something unhappily tense around the corners of the eyes and lips.
or, well, maybe that was the being thrown through a building. six of one, probably.
he'll be annoyed later, but for now he's too tired to mind that he doesn't notice jude until she's almost on top of him. there's no hiding the slight jump at her touch or the tired tremble in his fingers as he lifts one hand to swat hers away. (the blood on his cheek as clearly been wiped away by hand rather than magic.)]
Debris is all the rage among warriors these days. Really, you're the one who looks foolish without it. [his voice, at least, is as sharp and snappish as ever. (the effort of that isn't doing much for the ash of his complexion.)] Shall we?
no subject
( entirely normal statement to make, on an entirely normal day, for the daughter of a redcap. she would not be her father's ugly, violent frankenstein creation if she shied from it. pointedly, her hand returns — as one does, when the swat they've received is as intimidating as a growling kitten's — and, not to be cowed, smears the streak of red further across his cheekbone. seemingly complacent with her handiwork, her hand drops, hovering by her midsection.
two things can be true. the first: he looks like death, like a dead bird dropped at her door. the second: jude suspects he knows it well enough without it needing to be said, and yet. )
Shall we? ( primly, an eyebrow arches up toward her hairline. can you walk, bro. ) Are you intending to replace the blood you've lost with wine?
no subject