[ Of course Magestoffelees. He closes his eyes at her offer. Just for a moment. ]
They might hit the snake.
[ And then where would they be? One last deep breath, and he extricates himself successfully, slow and steady does it, and that’s enough undressing for tonight. He folds it over, and tosses it over his boots.
All that remains now is for him to roll his cloak into a pillow, and origami fold himself down onto his back with it under his head, hat and all. If he’s uncomfortable, he gives no indication.
But he doesn’t snap it off clean into a good night either, watchful from the floor. Taking one last measure of whether or not he might wake up dead if he sleeps here. ]
[He looks, she decides, a little like a collapsed tent that's somehow made more of poles than of canvas.]
Happy Satinalia, [she echoes, and then - seeing as he is settled - moves to unfold herself. The least she can do for him is to do away with light in the lantern.] Stay as you are, otherwise I'll trip over you.
[One of the blankets comes with her and draped generally in his direction as she makes her passage. And while it's a touchy thing, Fitcher is evidently just nimble enough on bare feet to make it to the lantern without incident. A candle is lit from it, the large light doused, and the former is capable of seeing her safely back through the gamut to the cot. That light she allows to burn so she might re-plait her hair into some looser shape.]
Would you like to have breakfast in the morning, or should we wait to see how flattened you are?
[Is the last question she intends to torture him with.]
[ Staying still is an easy ask. Just as he’d watched her settled on the cot, he watches her pad around him-- late to clock that the blanket that drops across his knee has been deliberately shared.
He snares it up and drags it unevenly over himself, snug as a bug who is now also a rug in lower, warmer light. ]
I am interested in breakfast. [ Conceptually. ]
Edited (what if i just switch formatting randomly) 2020-11-22 17:39 (UTC)
[Her hm is a low, meandering thing over the soft rasp of faintly shifting clothes and blankets as the dark mane of her hair passes through her fingers and is rebound.]
Good, [is her eventual assessment. The candle is extinguished, pitching the room (which has no windows; Kirkwall is dreadful) into perfect darkness.] I know of a place with excellent bacon.
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They might hit the snake.
[ And then where would they be? One last deep breath, and he extricates himself successfully, slow and steady does it, and that’s enough undressing for tonight. He folds it over, and tosses it over his boots.
All that remains now is for him to roll his cloak into a pillow, and origami fold himself down onto his back with it under his head, hat and all. If he’s uncomfortable, he gives no indication.
But he doesn’t snap it off clean into a good night either, watchful from the floor. Taking one last measure of whether or not he might wake up dead if he sleeps here. ]
Happy Satinalia.
no subject
Happy Satinalia, [she echoes, and then - seeing as he is settled - moves to unfold herself. The least she can do for him is to do away with light in the lantern.] Stay as you are, otherwise I'll trip over you.
[One of the blankets comes with her and draped generally in his direction as she makes her passage. And while it's a touchy thing, Fitcher is evidently just nimble enough on bare feet to make it to the lantern without incident. A candle is lit from it, the large light doused, and the former is capable of seeing her safely back through the gamut to the cot. That light she allows to burn so she might re-plait her hair into some looser shape.]
Would you like to have breakfast in the morning, or should we wait to see how flattened you are?
[Is the last question she intends to torture him with.]
no subject
He snares it up and drags it unevenly over himself, snug as a bug who is now also a rug in lower, warmer light. ]
I am interested in breakfast. [ Conceptually. ]
no subject
Good, [is her eventual assessment. The candle is extinguished, pitching the room (which has no windows; Kirkwall is dreadful) into perfect darkness.] I know of a place with excellent bacon.