[Something still is wrong, because when L intimates (from Leviathan's back) that Jin Guangyao should be afraid, Myr only turns his head further into his Witch's hand with an etiolated relief. No horror, though some dim part of him registers that he should feel horror--if not for the Naga's sake then for L's. No satisfaction, though, no moment of vicious retributive sentiment that he has to wrestle back into its place because he does not have the luxury of hating that way, because better is demanded of him.
Just washed-gray relief. Someone else is dealing with this. (How little energy he has to sustain anger for longer than a moment.)]
Good, [he does manage, and the reflexive,] Thank you. You do good work.
[Work he should be able and willing to engage with, though as L asks him to clear his mind, he frowns.] It isn't? Sorry, let me...
[A desert is his first and natal inclination. Hasmal's desert--the churning dunes stretching endlessly away from the Circle tower toward the horizon. It isn't truly featureless to one intimately familiar with its moods: There are the sinuous dunes with scrub brush growing in their lee, and there the tracks of a hunting phoenix or a wandering tortoise, and there a brush-wren gathering twigs for her nest. There the wind cleaves a slide of sand from the face of a dune, and something wet and gleaming and flesh-red is thus revealed, and--
Myr starts against L's hand, pulse and breathing suddenly quickening. No, try again.
Imagine a desert beneath the midnight sky when the moons are new, everything silvered with starlight, including the eyes that blink in the troughs of the dunes--]
no subject
Just washed-gray relief. Someone else is dealing with this. (How little energy he has to sustain anger for longer than a moment.)]
Good, [he does manage, and the reflexive,] Thank you. You do good work.
[Work he should be able and willing to engage with, though as L asks him to clear his mind, he frowns.] It isn't? Sorry, let me...
[A desert is his first and natal inclination. Hasmal's desert--the churning dunes stretching endlessly away from the Circle tower toward the horizon. It isn't truly featureless to one intimately familiar with its moods: There are the sinuous dunes with scrub brush growing in their lee, and there the tracks of a hunting phoenix or a wandering tortoise, and there a brush-wren gathering twigs for her nest. There the wind cleaves a slide of sand from the face of a dune, and something wet and gleaming and flesh-red is thus revealed, and--
Myr starts against L's hand, pulse and breathing suddenly quickening. No, try again.
Imagine a desert beneath the midnight sky when the moons are new, everything silvered with starlight, including the eyes that blink in the troughs of the dunes--]