He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. “I, likewise, am glad to have dispelled any rumors of my premature death. And glad to have you as my gallant protector—though I should warn you that I make for a poor damsel in distress.” And a rather underdressed one. He pulls Emmrich’s sash tighter around his shoulders, feeling strangely conscious of his near-nudity. He’s not ordinarily shy about showing off his assets, such as they are, but… well, Emmrich is an attractive man, and Hawke is only human. He feels like he’s stepped into one of those dreams in which he realizes halfway through an important social engagement that he’s forgotten to put on his trousers.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the touch of another human being until he feels Emmrich’s hand in his, warm and alive. He holds on for just a second too long, then hastily breaks the contact when he realizes how strange his behavior must seem. Maker, Hawke, what’s the matter with you?
Fortunately, Emmrich gives him the opportunity to think about something other than his rapidly atrophying social skills. “That must have been a real pain in the ass to clean up.” He tries to picture Emmrich babysitting a bunch of rowdy, magically gifted teenagers. The thought serves to lighten his mood by a fraction, though the idea of academically sanctioned spirit-summoning is difficult for him to wrap his head around.
“Where I’m from,” he continues, “most people don’t make any distinction between spirits and demons. Intentionally trying to summon one… Well. It’s frowned upon, to say the least. I always thought that dabbling in that sort of thing could only lead to possession. But you’re no abomination.” He tilts his chin up to look Emmrich in the eyes, his gaze appraising. After a few moments, he seems to find what he’s looking for. “Maybe I was wrong.”
He's grateful for the chance to do something productive instead of wandering around thinking about how catastrophically screwed he is. He takes off after Emmrich and the wisps, his protesting muscles be damned. It doesn’t take them long to reach the river.
The winding black ribbon looks much the same as it did before, lending credence to Emmrich’s hypothesis that major geographical features in the Fade have at least some degree of permanence. Hawke gazes at its opaque surface, still perturbed by the lack of any reflection. He’s not taking another swim any time soon, that’s for damn sure. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could manifest a boat?”
no subject
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the touch of another human being until he feels Emmrich’s hand in his, warm and alive. He holds on for just a second too long, then hastily breaks the contact when he realizes how strange his behavior must seem. Maker, Hawke, what’s the matter with you?
Fortunately, Emmrich gives him the opportunity to think about something other than his rapidly atrophying social skills. “That must have been a real pain in the ass to clean up.” He tries to picture Emmrich babysitting a bunch of rowdy, magically gifted teenagers. The thought serves to lighten his mood by a fraction, though the idea of academically sanctioned spirit-summoning is difficult for him to wrap his head around.
“Where I’m from,” he continues, “most people don’t make any distinction between spirits and demons. Intentionally trying to summon one… Well. It’s frowned upon, to say the least. I always thought that dabbling in that sort of thing could only lead to possession. But you’re no abomination.” He tilts his chin up to look Emmrich in the eyes, his gaze appraising. After a few moments, he seems to find what he’s looking for. “Maybe I was wrong.”
He's grateful for the chance to do something productive instead of wandering around thinking about how catastrophically screwed he is. He takes off after Emmrich and the wisps, his protesting muscles be damned. It doesn’t take them long to reach the river.
The winding black ribbon looks much the same as it did before, lending credence to Emmrich’s hypothesis that major geographical features in the Fade have at least some degree of permanence. Hawke gazes at its opaque surface, still perturbed by the lack of any reflection. He’s not taking another swim any time soon, that’s for damn sure. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could manifest a boat?”