Where was that threat when I broke the bed after you got me all wound up?
[ He remembers that night fondly and well (along with so many others), and no, the promise of retribution (for the messes, the ones which Sokie seems to always clean up) doesn't at all scare him.
What does is this: the thought of being allowed (being alone) to sit and stew in his own head, because in the moments after Sokie had left him, memories of Arcadia had been upon him again. He'd heard it for the second time, the voice of his once-Keeper, and it had rooted deep at the back of his mind no different from the way the Cwyld seized upon its hosts and left them shaded and shadowed, full of the infection and nothing else.
And so, to set himself to purpose (and to remain in the present, straying far from the possibility of falling into a waking dream), he'd cast a spell. Enacted the magic which had Sokie sweeping up chair-bits into a tin basin.
She isn't wrong. When he isn't focused, his spellcraft lacks in finesse. And yet, it'd felt so damn exhilarating to smash something to pieces after being laid up and useless in bed. ]
Or is it the fact that we wrecked it together, and this... [ He breathes in, the warmth of the cup of broth pressed to the center of his bare chest. By way of the porcelain, the heat of the liquid suffuses through to his skin in a way that's enlivening, helping to affix him to his surroundings. The washroom. Their shared home. To Sokie, who's going to strong-arm him into studying while his body remains in recovery. ] ...is the piss poor result of my own heedlessness?
[ Taloned hands curling all the more tightly around the cup of broth, Asura does not partake (he does not drink), though he holds fast to it. Clutches it, like its heat were a lifeline that had been offered to him. That, upon waking, his pride had been glad for the lack of an audience to his miserable state remains true. However... the longer that he remains awake (and the longer that his dream does not fade from his mind), the more he finds that he has no wish to be left alone to his own devices.
(Hilarious. Real fuckin' funny, that Asura Adevah, who wears Summer's diadem, is warfaring and commanding, draconic and bestial, cannot stomach the thought of being on his own. How he is vulnerable, just as Sokie had proclaimed him to be, and he doesn't know how to reconcile the fact with what he is. What he projects himself to be.)
And suddenly, a startling !! acquiescence: ]
But I'll learn to mend. [ If she's the one who's showing him. ] Can't promise I'll be any good at it, but I'll learn.
It's... how you put me back together again, isn't it? [ Because it couldn't be healed, only mended, the stone which housed his crystalline innards. And before what had been harvested from him could be reformed again, its shell of protective framework had to be repaired, fissure by fissure. ] Think I should at least be familiar with how it's done, if only for that reason.
no subject
[ He remembers that night fondly and well (along with so many others), and no, the promise of retribution (for the messes, the ones which Sokie seems to always clean up) doesn't at all scare him.
What does is this: the thought of being allowed (being alone) to sit and stew in his own head, because in the moments after Sokie had left him, memories of Arcadia had been upon him again. He'd heard it for the second time, the voice of his once-Keeper, and it had rooted deep at the back of his mind no different from the way the Cwyld seized upon its hosts and left them shaded and shadowed, full of the infection and nothing else.
And so, to set himself to purpose (and to remain in the present, straying far from the possibility of falling into a waking dream), he'd cast a spell. Enacted the magic which had Sokie sweeping up chair-bits into a tin basin.
She isn't wrong. When he isn't focused, his spellcraft lacks in finesse. And yet, it'd felt so damn exhilarating to smash something to pieces after being laid up and useless in bed. ]
Or is it the fact that we wrecked it together, and this... [ He breathes in, the warmth of the cup of broth pressed to the center of his bare chest. By way of the porcelain, the heat of the liquid suffuses through to his skin in a way that's enlivening, helping to affix him to his surroundings. The washroom. Their shared home. To Sokie, who's going to strong-arm him into studying while his body remains in recovery. ] ...is the piss poor result of my own heedlessness?
[ Taloned hands curling all the more tightly around the cup of broth, Asura does not partake (he does not drink), though he holds fast to it. Clutches it, like its heat were a lifeline that had been offered to him. That, upon waking, his pride had been glad for the lack of an audience to his miserable state remains true. However... the longer that he remains awake (and the longer that his dream does not fade from his mind), the more he finds that he has no wish to be left alone to his own devices.
(Hilarious. Real fuckin' funny, that Asura Adevah, who wears Summer's diadem, is warfaring and commanding, draconic and bestial, cannot stomach the thought of being on his own. How he is vulnerable, just as Sokie had proclaimed him to be, and he doesn't know how to reconcile the fact with what he is. What he projects himself to be.)
And suddenly, a startling !! acquiescence: ]
But I'll learn to mend. [ If she's the one who's showing him. ] Can't promise I'll be any good at it, but I'll learn.
It's... how you put me back together again, isn't it? [ Because it couldn't be healed, only mended, the stone which housed his crystalline innards. And before what had been harvested from him could be reformed again, its shell of protective framework had to be repaired, fissure by fissure. ] Think I should at least be familiar with how it's done, if only for that reason.