"I'm sure it will be utterly delightful for me to discuss with him, at some point," possibly never, says the Saint, as bland background noise for Palamedes's bag-rooting.
When the Master Warden looks at him again, there is a particularly inhuman quality to him; something static, perhaps, the sort of 'unmoving' that includes 'unchanging' but also includes a hint of television snow — the uneasy sense of someone who has only lived through ten thousand years (and more than that besides) by not really living through them, just — counting them off — holding them at arm's length, waiting for them to pass him by.
Approximately five and a half seconds pass, between question and answer:
"Cytherea Loveday, known for the Miracle at Rhodes," he says, distantly, as if reciting something he barely remembers, or possibly as if he's remembering it so thoroughly that his voice is echoing through a ten-thousand-year-long tunnel; is there any real difference, at this point?
And then his gaze sharpens, ash-grey vs lambent-grey, and he asks (quite thoughtfully), "What was yours?"
no subject
When the Master Warden looks at him again, there is a particularly inhuman quality to him; something static, perhaps, the sort of 'unmoving' that includes 'unchanging' but also includes a hint of television snow — the uneasy sense of someone who has only lived through ten thousand years (and more than that besides) by not really living through them, just — counting them off — holding them at arm's length, waiting for them to pass him by.
Approximately five and a half seconds pass, between question and answer:
"Cytherea Loveday, known for the Miracle at Rhodes," he says, distantly, as if reciting something he barely remembers, or possibly as if he's remembering it so thoroughly that his voice is echoing through a ten-thousand-year-long tunnel; is there any real difference, at this point?
And then his gaze sharpens, ash-grey vs lambent-grey, and he asks (quite thoughtfully), "What was yours?"