[ He's almost on top of Rust before his presence goes acknowledged—Rust's off somewhere in his own head, inscribing details into memory. Casiria's glance over her shoulder, the way she'd brought her hand to the pendant at her neck. The flow and substance of her gestures.
And then it shifts. He listens, for once—tries to catch whatever strain of music accompanies the refracted imagery, the hall-of-mirrors feel of his own preoccupations filtered through Gildor. Automatically tweaks the distorted impression of the necklace.
He stops himself from thinking about the bead in his pocket. For now. ] (Where were you, when it happened?) [ Not an accusation—a kind of confidence, the feeling of being drawn in.
And aloud, for the benefit of any listening ears: ] Fuck if I know.
no subject
And then it shifts. He listens, for once—tries to catch whatever strain of music accompanies the refracted imagery, the hall-of-mirrors feel of his own preoccupations filtered through Gildor. Automatically tweaks the distorted impression of the necklace.
He stops himself from thinking about the bead in his pocket. For now. ] ( Where were you, when it happened? ) [ Not an accusation—a kind of confidence, the feeling of being drawn in.
And aloud, for the benefit of any listening ears: ] Fuck if I know.