Cleaning up is tough when you got the one shirt. Somewhere, back in Val Royeaux, there's an engraved chest full of finely-embroidered clothes, all folded and smelling of rosewater. There's a blue one he'd pick for this, one Lunette always liked; soft beneath the hand, softer on her lips -
Or maybe she threw them all out. Burned them, most like.
So it's the one shirt: Not quite dry from scrubbing out pit stains. It's cold in Kirkwall this time of year, and the wind's a bitch through wet hair. There's a scab where beard-trimming went briefly awry. And he smells, despite his best efforts, a bit like Barrow's cats.
But he's here, at seven, lounging against the doorframe.
"Never did ask if you'd got schooling," Sure talks like it. "If you're a mage, you gotta let me know before I piss you off."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-01-19 08:35 am (UTC)Or maybe she threw them all out. Burned them, most like.
So it's the one shirt: Not quite dry from scrubbing out pit stains. It's cold in Kirkwall this time of year, and the wind's a bitch through wet hair. There's a scab where beard-trimming went briefly awry. And he smells, despite his best efforts, a bit like Barrow's cats.
But he's here, at seven, lounging against the doorframe.
"Never did ask if you'd got schooling," Sure talks like it. "If you're a mage, you gotta let me know before I piss you off."