[She launches from her perch as he turns away, two wingbeats and a glide carrying her to land on the next box he comes to before his hand can come down on it. Rearing up, she reaches to put her minuscule palm in the way of his own--don't.
Her Sleeper would not ask someone to go into fatal danger for his sake, whether or not there was a chance of rescue; his chances of "survival" are much higher than one of the living--
And there's not any saving him this way, either.
She gives another admonitory trill, into an apologetic whistle. She is sorry.
(The words on the label she's standing over slowly corrode into unintelligible letterforms, reminiscent of tiny eye-defying text seen so many months ago in another frozen tomb.)]
no subject
Her Sleeper would not ask someone to go into fatal danger for his sake, whether or not there was a chance of rescue; his chances of "survival" are much higher than one of the living--
And there's not any saving him this way, either.
She gives another admonitory trill, into an apologetic whistle. She is sorry.
(The words on the label she's standing over slowly corrode into unintelligible letterforms, reminiscent of tiny eye-defying text seen so many months ago in another frozen tomb.)]