The Ninth is not a House of casual touch. Ortus is not a man who wishes it was otherwise. When the Saint claps his shoulder he tenses, his holy instructions nearly drowned out by a hum of discomfort. The acrid smoke only contributes to his queasiness, a hard, tumbling ball in his hollowed stomach.
There is no retreat he may make or resistance he may offer. His withdrawal is an internal one, sinking into numbness. His shoulder slackens, the bunching of perhaps unexpectedly sturdy musculature under his soft exterior giving way to limp passivity.
"Thank you, Holy Finger," he says, deferentially absent, a poppet animated by long practice, "I find myself with many unaccounted for hours, of late. I will endeavor to apply the highest quality of repair. I would not represent the Empire poorly, with haphazard work."
no subject
There is no retreat he may make or resistance he may offer. His withdrawal is an internal one, sinking into numbness. His shoulder slackens, the bunching of perhaps unexpectedly sturdy musculature under his soft exterior giving way to limp passivity.
"Thank you, Holy Finger," he says, deferentially absent, a poppet animated by long practice, "I find myself with many unaccounted for hours, of late. I will endeavor to apply the highest quality of repair. I would not represent the Empire poorly, with haphazard work."