"Drink a lot. A lot," in case the stress on that word wasn't clear. "And pray to the Maker for the mercy of forgetting. You're lucky, they're quite common tricks and you haven't got to be a Seeker at all to employ them, because you're in no fit shape to be taking any trials or doing any new training, Serrah."
Her smile takes any edge from her remarks, and she moves closer to the bed and carefully lays her hand on one of his.
For someone feeling like shit warmed over, a sudden lightness comes over Barrow, and it's all he can do to keep from grasping her hand back. For a few seconds, it's all he can think about, and then he recenters himself in the conversation.
"Well--" he sputters, getting back up to speed, "I'm good at that. And I'm not telling you how big they can actually get, because as we've just established, I would prefer to know less than I already do."
"Yes, but how will I know to be prepared in the future, if I'm asked to stand up against a herd of giant spiders, unless I have all of the information presently available about them? Information such as how large they can get. Is it a 'herd' of spiders, do you think? That seems too," she hums, thoughtfully, "pastoral for spiders. A tribe of spiders? Pack?"
Blithe and light and putting on a very good cheerful face, but she is looking him over, now that she is closer. Checking for anything terrible that couldn't be diagnosed from the doorway.
"Tiffany," Barrow scolds, actually seeming like he means it at least a little bit, but only in the smiling, affectionate way of having no capacity to actually be angry. It may also be the first time he's used her first name with such familiarity, but it might not.
"...a fuck this," he decides after not very much deliberation, "a fuck this of spiders."
The wound is ugly, and looks painful, and Barrow is a bit pale from it. But he'll be all right. OR WILL HE
But Tiffany has no reason to suspect anything but a full recovery. It is possible to die of an old wound--or even a new wound brought to recover in an infirmary. If there were a suspicion, she might be disarmed by her name, deployed so fondly--amusingly--familiarly. If a little flush comes into her cheeks, she pretends not to notice it and would pray to the Maker that he does the same. Her hand is still on his and she does not want to move it, yet. She does not want to call attention to it. She does not want to move it.
"A fuck this of spiders," she agrees. "I think it will catch on in no time. We can write to someone and have it--oh, I don't know. Formalized, or canonized, or whatever you would do to register a title like that. I'm glad," swiftly afterward, like she might disguise this by joining it to their joking, "to find you've survived your fuck this. I can't imagine Riftwatch without you."
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timeasmymeasure
NONE.
Date: 2023-07-22 12:10 am (UTC)Her smile takes any edge from her remarks, and she moves closer to the bed and carefully lays her hand on one of his.
"How big can spiders actually get? Roughly."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-22 05:45 am (UTC)"Well--" he sputters, getting back up to speed, "I'm good at that. And I'm not telling you how big they can actually get, because as we've just established, I would prefer to know less than I already do."
no subject
Date: 2023-08-04 02:41 am (UTC)Blithe and light and putting on a very good cheerful face, but she is looking him over, now that she is closer. Checking for anything terrible that couldn't be diagnosed from the doorway.
no subject
Date: 2023-08-04 06:29 am (UTC)It may also be the first time he's used her first name with such familiarity, but it might not.
"...a fuck this," he decides after not very much deliberation, "a fuck this of spiders."
The wound is ugly, and looks painful, and Barrow is a bit pale from it. But he'll be all right. OR WILL HE
no subject
Date: 2023-08-05 02:05 am (UTC)But Tiffany has no reason to suspect anything but a full recovery. It is possible to die of an old wound--or even a new wound brought to recover in an infirmary. If there were a suspicion, she might be disarmed by her name, deployed so fondly--amusingly--familiarly. If a little flush comes into her cheeks, she pretends not to notice it and would pray to the Maker that he does the same. Her hand is still on his and she does not want to move it, yet. She does not want to call attention to it. She does not want to move it.
"A fuck this of spiders," she agrees. "I think it will catch on in no time. We can write to someone and have it--oh, I don't know. Formalized, or canonized, or whatever you would do to register a title like that. I'm glad," swiftly afterward, like she might disguise this by joining it to their joking, "to find you've survived your fuck this. I can't imagine Riftwatch without you."