is no louder than his usual, but firmly spoken, with an authority he has not often exercised since his joining of the outfit called Riftwatch. A return to his gentle timbre, then:
"Treat them kindly."
Thus heard, he approaches the ruined tent to have a better look at the remains. The little bit of scalp still clinging, the rags, what passes for dry in this wretched tropical humidity. "In this climate, weeks, perhaps. I'd guess a month or more. They ought to've been pulled apart by scavenging wildlife." Poisoned? A virulent sting, or something they ate?
And Poesia is nothing if not well trained to responding to a firm hand. She settles immediately, hands dropping from the corpse's ankles to settle on her thighs. She'd crouched a bit and now looks up at him with a mild pout. There is the distinct air of a dog whose been whacked on the nose with a rolled up paper and is largely puzzled by it.
When the conversation doesn't continue, and the woman doesn't rise, Leander turns again to look at her. Two little creases have formed between his eyebrows. Perhaps he and Poesia look at each other for several seconds before he asks,
"What are you doing?"
Edited (people not eyebrows) 2020-08-06 05:31 (UTC)
"Waiting," she says, as though it were very obvious, "You sounded as though you had orders." But since those aren't forth coming, she pushes herself up, dusting her knees off thoughtfully. "What a pity I didn't know you better, you've a lovely voice."
And then she surveys the destroyed camp and says, "Do you suppose it was poison of some sort? I can't imagine why they wouldn't have been eaten otherwise."
Leander's stare lingers for some seconds; the knot in his brow, too, now more thoughtfully. Is it really that simple? (Is she really that simple?)
Back to the bodies, then. "Could've been. Disease, perhaps. In any case, the insects seem to've liked them just fine." The way he clears his throat here may be described as delicate. "What does my voice have to do with it?"
She very much wants to take the bodies apart, like they used to in the Drakeling nests, but as there are no Drakelings to coddle and the sweet boy had given her an order, she sets the urge aside.
She hums and tips her head, thinking. "I find it charming. I like that you sound very soft most of the time, but your order was very clear and strong." Poesia gives him a sunny smile, "I do prefer a firm hand at my collar, you see."
"Ah. I do remember hearing you say something to that effect, now that you mention it."
Over the crystals, transmitting to all. The compulsion to be so indiscreet outside of any special circumstance is difficult to imagine of himself; he can only regard it from a distance and wonder at it. While he's at it, he regards Poesia herself, like she's only just registered in his awareness as something more than furniture. It isn't a subtle look; he needn't bother.
"Is that desire always so near the forefront of your mind?"
"Of course not," she says with a sweet laugh, as though that were the funniest question she's ever heard. She taps her chin thoughtfully. "It's more hearing a tune you think is familiar at first, until you listen properly and realize it's not. I would be very poorly made indeed if I were to be so focused on something like that."
He's right, of course, that it's needless to hide the way he looks at her. She returns his look with bemused curiosity. She can't begin to fathom what's caught his attention about her, but that's hardly a surprise. It's not her place to know such things.
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is no louder than his usual, but firmly spoken, with an authority he has not often exercised since his joining of the outfit called Riftwatch. A return to his gentle timbre, then:
"Treat them kindly."
Thus heard, he approaches the ruined tent to have a better look at the remains. The little bit of scalp still clinging, the rags, what passes for dry in this wretched tropical humidity. "In this climate, weeks, perhaps. I'd guess a month or more. They ought to've been pulled apart by scavenging wildlife." Poisoned? A virulent sting, or something they ate?
no subject
no subject
"What are you doing?"
no subject
And then she surveys the destroyed camp and says, "Do you suppose it was poison of some sort? I can't imagine why they wouldn't have been eaten otherwise."
no subject
Leander's stare lingers for some seconds; the knot in his brow, too, now more thoughtfully. Is it really that simple? (Is she really that simple?)
Back to the bodies, then. "Could've been. Disease, perhaps. In any case, the insects seem to've liked them just fine." The way he clears his throat here may be described as delicate. "What does my voice have to do with it?"
no subject
She hums and tips her head, thinking. "I find it charming. I like that you sound very soft most of the time, but your order was very clear and strong." Poesia gives him a sunny smile, "I do prefer a firm hand at my collar, you see."
no subject
Over the crystals, transmitting to all. The compulsion to be so indiscreet outside of any special circumstance is difficult to imagine of himself; he can only regard it from a distance and wonder at it. While he's at it, he regards Poesia herself, like she's only just registered in his awareness as something more than furniture. It isn't a subtle look; he needn't bother.
"Is that desire always so near the forefront of your mind?"
no subject
He's right, of course, that it's needless to hide the way he looks at her. She returns his look with bemused curiosity. She can't begin to fathom what's caught his attention about her, but that's hardly a surprise. It's not her place to know such things.