Aurelia is always someone who is abnormally still. And yet she turns and seems to freeze for a long moment. ...Executor knows she heard him. But he also understands needing time to collect one's thoughts. So he bows his head, and waits (which is, unfortunately, another act of faith in its own right. Sorry about the brights.).
She says she will assist him. That's...a great relief. His wings droop slightly as he raises his gaze, listening as instructed. He can collect supplies for a ritual or search for more belongings or-
Sit. Sit? He can sit. He's sitting now. The chair scrapes as he follows the simple instruction, something actionable, something to do. He ignores how it's a relief for his overly tired body to land in any sort of resting position.
Look into her eyes? Is it a respectful custom for her, to keep eye contact while reporting? He feels a vague sense of dejavu when he meets her blood red eyes. There's...a deepness he wasn't expecting. And-
There's a tugging sensation and...oh. He's heard of this. He's heard Djall use similar methods in "therapy sessions" and the like. He's...not quite sure if that's what's happening. Is she sure she's not sarkaz...? This should be concerning...yet no such alarm bells sound. The circling thoughts, the endless ideas of what to do, what he needs to do, he shouldn't be resting when more could be dying right now-
Silenced. Smoothed out, into neat little sections where they belong.
Tell me what happened.
He can do that. He wants to. Especially since it...oddly doesn't hurt to recall anymore. The pain and exhaustion are distant now. He doesn't notice himself sagging forward in the chair, coming to lean on his elbows against the table, unable to break her gaze. All that matters is what he needs to tell Signora Aurelia now. Blessedly simple after...after...that thought unravels and drifts away. It doesn't matter.
"Sunday is gone," he says, simple, as if he were just speaking about the weather, if a bit worn down. "There are reflections that emerge from the mirrors on this floor. Some have a form of sentience, a..." A slow blink. "Goal...? Yes. One seemed very determined to trap Sunday in the mirror from whence it came. I could not reach him in time. So the reflection succeeded." His brow furrows slightly. There was...a problem with that, wasn't there?
It is wise to get one's brain semi-regularly cleaned, right? Like going to the dentist!
...Executor knows she heard him. But he also understands needing time to collect one's thoughts. So he bows his head, and waits (which is, unfortunately, another act of faith in its own right. Sorry about the brights.).
She says she will assist him. That's...a great relief. His wings droop slightly as he raises his gaze, listening as instructed. He can collect supplies for a ritual or search for more belongings or-
Sit. Sit? He can sit. He's sitting now. The chair scrapes as he follows the simple instruction, something actionable, something to do.
He ignores how it's a relief for his overly tired body to land in any sort of resting position.Look into her eyes? Is it a respectful custom for her, to keep eye contact while reporting? He feels a vague sense of dejavu when he meets her blood red eyes. There's...a deepness he wasn't expecting. And-
There's a tugging sensation and...oh. He's heard of this. He's heard Djall use similar methods in "therapy sessions" and the like. He's...not quite sure if that's what's happening. Is she sure she's not sarkaz...? This should be concerning...yet no such alarm bells sound. The circling thoughts, the endless ideas of what to do, what he needs to do, he shouldn't be resting when more could be dying right now-
Silenced. Smoothed out, into neat little sections where they belong.
Tell me what happened.
He can do that. He wants to. Especially since it...oddly doesn't hurt to recall anymore. The pain and exhaustion are distant now. He doesn't notice himself sagging forward in the chair, coming to lean on his elbows against the table, unable to break her gaze. All that matters is what he needs to tell Signora Aurelia now. Blessedly simple after...after...that thought unravels and drifts away. It doesn't matter.
"Sunday is gone," he says, simple, as if he were just speaking about the weather, if a bit worn down. "There are reflections that emerge from the mirrors on this floor. Some have a form of sentience, a..." A slow blink. "Goal...? Yes. One seemed very determined to trap Sunday in the mirror from whence it came. I could not reach him in time. So the reflection succeeded." His brow furrows slightly. There was...a problem with that, wasn't there?