[L's not a strong swimmer. Even if it was a good idea to venture into waters that are known to be laced with corruption, he wouldn't be out in it. His orca whale omen, Lycka, manages it with ease, and indulges L's curious compulsion to investigate by assisting him in collecting prosthetic body parts, snatching them, often, before they even reach the shore.
They can only cover so much area by themselves, though, and it's only so much time before they happen upon a couple. The "ordinary man" is certainly anything but to the sharp-eyed detective, who recognizes him even at a distance and goes immediately on-edge as a result. The woman is wholly unfamiliar, but in an eerie way that he can't actually be as certain about, called further into question by her clear association with John.
He's never seen Alecto, after all, at least not from this side of those golden eyes. Lycka picks up on his uneasiness, shrinking and returning to circle his wrist so that she isn't far from her sleeper's shallow breath and racing heart.
Intuition is never wrong, only interpretation. So... what is there to interpret, here? He thinks, for a moment, that it could just be the result of approaching a man who dismantled him on a molecular level, but if so, wouldn't he have locked up on the beach when that man's omen was actively attacking him?
No, it's more than that. He thinks back to the dinner that he saw through Augustine's eyes when Mercymorn had tried to tear that marketplace book from his hands. The people around the table, he would all recognize; this woman wasn't present. She may be one of the beauties of times bygone, or perhaps...
He really should resolve, in his dark cloak and with his small basket of prosthetics, to keep a wary distance. Nothing great can come of this, but then she moves, and that terrible, visceral cracking would probably turn a weaker stomach than L's to the point of violently emptying.
He supposes he's repulsed. He supposes he still can't name what feels like they've shared something, because, oh, haven't they? And he sees where he misstepped, now that he sees her in the flesh; she's mad, she must be, and he approached the study of her place in John's life with method and meticulousness. Would it have gone on longer if he'd just known that he needed to make his incisors lose a match to something sharp, hard and metal?
The omen at his wrist naggingly tugs him back. She would rather he keep his hand, rather that the events of the past aren't dredged up in a way that will only hurt her sleeper, threaten the stalemate, rattle something irrevocably out of place.
Stagnancy is so much worse than all of those things, to the detective. It's his fatal folly. He swallows, and approaches.]
Congratulations might be in order, but I've chosen to assume nothing at the moment.
1 with a side of John Gaius, please!
They can only cover so much area by themselves, though, and it's only so much time before they happen upon a couple. The "ordinary man" is certainly anything but to the sharp-eyed detective, who recognizes him even at a distance and goes immediately on-edge as a result. The woman is wholly unfamiliar, but in an eerie way that he can't actually be as certain about, called further into question by her clear association with John.
He's never seen Alecto, after all, at least not from this side of those golden eyes. Lycka picks up on his uneasiness, shrinking and returning to circle his wrist so that she isn't far from her sleeper's shallow breath and racing heart.
Intuition is never wrong, only interpretation. So... what is there to interpret, here? He thinks, for a moment, that it could just be the result of approaching a man who dismantled him on a molecular level, but if so, wouldn't he have locked up on the beach when that man's omen was actively attacking him?
No, it's more than that. He thinks back to the dinner that he saw through Augustine's eyes when Mercymorn had tried to tear that marketplace book from his hands. The people around the table, he would all recognize; this woman wasn't present. She may be one of the beauties of times bygone, or perhaps...
He really should resolve, in his dark cloak and with his small basket of prosthetics, to keep a wary distance. Nothing great can come of this, but then she moves, and that terrible, visceral cracking would probably turn a weaker stomach than L's to the point of violently emptying.
He supposes he's repulsed. He supposes he still can't name what feels like they've shared something, because, oh, haven't they? And he sees where he misstepped, now that he sees her in the flesh; she's mad, she must be, and he approached the study of her place in John's life with method and meticulousness. Would it have gone on longer if he'd just known that he needed to make his incisors lose a match to something sharp, hard and metal?
The omen at his wrist naggingly tugs him back. She would rather he keep his hand, rather that the events of the past aren't dredged up in a way that will only hurt her sleeper, threaten the stalemate, rattle something irrevocably out of place.
Stagnancy is so much worse than all of those things, to the detective. It's his fatal folly. He swallows, and approaches.]
Congratulations might be in order, but I've chosen to assume nothing at the moment.