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oracleglass2016-02-11 01:37 pm
fallenfortune) wrote in oracleglass2016-02-11 01:37 pm
placeholder for things
teary eyed josie things
Josephine paces outside Ezio's door, the sound of her steps echoing in her ears. She only stops when the mage comes out, nodding and speaking in low tones of his injuries. Not dire, not anymore, but bandaging and much rest is what the mage prescribes. It makes the weight almost lift from Josephine's shoulders.
But not entirely. When the mage passes, it's the ambassador who steps in, quietly creeping to his bed. Bare to the waist and stitched and bandaged nicely, he doesn't look nearly as bad as before. Then again she hadn't seen him except for quick glances, her heart hammering in her chest, before the shouts brought others to bring him inside. Now in the agent quarters he lies, lucky enough to have the room to himself while others worked to Sister Nightingale's ends.
She isn't sure if he slumbers or not but she still doesn't speak. She doesn't think she can. She had wept outside until her throat is raw and her eyes burn from want of tears that no longer can fall. One hand falls to his, fingers gently interlacing with his before she pulls up a chair to sit beside his bed.
Josephine paces outside Ezio's door, the sound of her steps echoing in her ears. She only stops when the mage comes out, nodding and speaking in low tones of his injuries. Not dire, not anymore, but bandaging and much rest is what the mage prescribes. It makes the weight almost lift from Josephine's shoulders.
But not entirely. When the mage passes, it's the ambassador who steps in, quietly creeping to his bed. Bare to the waist and stitched and bandaged nicely, he doesn't look nearly as bad as before. Then again she hadn't seen him except for quick glances, her heart hammering in her chest, before the shouts brought others to bring him inside. Now in the agent quarters he lies, lucky enough to have the room to himself while others worked to Sister Nightingale's ends.
She isn't sure if he slumbers or not but she still doesn't speak. She doesn't think she can. She had wept outside until her throat is raw and her eyes burn from want of tears that no longer can fall. One hand falls to his, fingers gently interlacing with his before she pulls up a chair to sit beside his bed.
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I'm yet to meet an Orlesian that can do half the work you do in an hour.
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I don't believe you ever will.
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[He finishes that particular diversion with a kiss against her lips. At this point, he's not worried about doing such a thing in front of the bard. He trusts them and it was why he had found them to play for them.]