[ Almost, he does not hear her words—more so than he would like, it is difficult for him to focus upon one transition into the next. Where he had trained his golden eyes upon the Devil's Trill as Caren employed its wires, gossamer-fine and lovely things, to ensnare his fallen assailants, beyond the dredge and drag of bodies, her voice...
His shoes are--...
What, exactly?!
Snapping to attention, he curls his fingers fast about her own, squeezing because surely he had heard wrong (even if he knows that he hadn't).
When Caren is like this, at a calm so deadened that it is malign, he knows that there is only one future ahead of him, if he should refuse to comply: a tragedy too great for his heart to bear, his collection of boots reduced to smoldering ash before his very eyes.
action. 1/2
His shoes are--...
What, exactly?!
Snapping to attention, he curls his fingers fast about her own, squeezing because surely he had heard wrong (even if he knows that he hadn't).
When Caren is like this, at a calm so deadened that it is malign, he knows that there is only one future ahead of him, if he should refuse to comply: a tragedy too great for his heart to bear, his collection of boots reduced to smoldering ash before his very eyes.
He, the Hero King, is duly appalled— ]