[She will be sore... but she will survive. That is the important part. She will not be thankful for it, but... she had fought herself, somehow, and there was little way to feel dishonor over potentially losing to someone who knew her so intimately, who matched her so evenly, as... Hayame.
Set's fingers draw her gaze as they are intended, despite how much she might like to keep looking at the trident instead. The spill of crimson that stains her tan skin, the glitter of the arrowhead-shaped shard between her breasts, the soft glow of the sunbeam she normally hid beside it, guarded beneath sliced bindings, robe, and the cold defenses of a woman sure that no one would try (or want) to touch her there.]
... I was thinking to commission one upon our return. The short blade I brought was less effective than I hoped.
[But she had been short of coin, and the blades were available, the naginata more expensive for its need for custom work. ... Priorities. Hah. She is so weak in the aftermath of having her [TIME] stolen and retrieved that she almost isn't even offended by the implication that she'd need to compensate for her current archery abilities. Almost.
Before she can stop him... he is pulling a layer of fabric from his body, and somehow- she had not expected it. It leaves her silent for a moment, long enough for him to do it... and the it is done, there is no point insisting he stop. It was not as if she had extra layers on herself- she had come relying on her kind's natural high body temperatures to protect her from the cold, so there was no jacket or extra robe to rely on. Another note for the future.
Her fingers curl tighter on the trident's shaft. She will thank him when it was done.]
- If this place had any decent straw to be found, I could weave shoes.
[Answer enough to the question of whether she had slipped or not. She had. She had in this last fight as well, while her icy doppelganger, made of the stuff, stood strong. But though she slumps against the wall in something like surrender, permission for him to... to touch her, to do what needed to be done... her stormy grey eyes aren't satisfied with the glitter of the weapon in her hand any longer.
They watch him, as she murmurs,]
I always imagined that for such a wretched showing... I would be abandoned by the god of war, not treated by him.
no subject
Set's fingers draw her gaze as they are intended, despite how much she might like to keep looking at the trident instead. The spill of crimson that stains her tan skin, the glitter of the arrowhead-shaped shard between her breasts, the soft glow of the sunbeam she normally hid beside it, guarded beneath sliced bindings, robe, and the cold defenses of a woman sure that no one would try (or want) to touch her there.]
... I was thinking to commission one upon our return. The short blade I brought was less effective than I hoped.
[But she had been short of coin, and the blades were available, the naginata more expensive for its need for custom work. ... Priorities. Hah. She is so weak in the aftermath of having her [TIME] stolen and retrieved that she almost isn't even offended by the implication that she'd need to compensate for her current archery abilities. Almost.
Before she can stop him... he is pulling a layer of fabric from his body, and somehow- she had not expected it. It leaves her silent for a moment, long enough for him to do it... and the it is done, there is no point insisting he stop. It was not as if she had extra layers on herself- she had come relying on her kind's natural high body temperatures to protect her from the cold, so there was no jacket or extra robe to rely on. Another note for the future.
Her fingers curl tighter on the trident's shaft. She will thank him when it was done.]
- If this place had any decent straw to be found, I could weave shoes.
[Answer enough to the question of whether she had slipped or not. She had. She had in this last fight as well, while her icy doppelganger, made of the stuff, stood strong. But though she slumps against the wall in something like surrender, permission for him to... to touch her, to do what needed to be done... her stormy grey eyes aren't satisfied with the glitter of the weapon in her hand any longer.
They watch him, as she murmurs,]
I always imagined that for such a wretched showing... I would be abandoned by the god of war, not treated by him.
[- The demon had called her that, too. Wretched.]