When Harrow arrives— she always comes when he summons her, always folds herself neatly into the chair across from his, always humors his tea tray and conciliatory glass of water— she may well realize that something is different, this time. God is in one of his melancholy moods, which are varied and almost universally horrible. This one is sweetly nostalgic, his gaze drifting to some great inward distance, contemplating something that never rises near enough to the surface to make out.
It's probably not reassuring when he diverts them from talk of necromancy, only a little ways into the visit, and begins with: ]
FOR HARROW
When Harrow arrives— she always comes when he summons her, always folds herself neatly into the chair across from his, always humors his tea tray and conciliatory glass of water— she may well realize that something is different, this time. God is in one of his melancholy moods, which are varied and almost universally horrible. This one is sweetly nostalgic, his gaze drifting to some great inward distance, contemplating something that never rises near enough to the surface to make out.
It's probably not reassuring when he diverts them from talk of necromancy, only a little ways into the visit, and begins with: ]
And how are things with the others?