( at the retort, the black-and-slightly-lighter-black blob recoils, rocking back onto her heels as if she had been struck. not necessarily by a blow, no, but by a realization that hit her like a sturdy piece of collapsing ceiling.
even if they were wrapped in the trappings of her own vocal timbre, she couldn't mistake the haphazard cadence or the atrocious diction for anyone else. her mouth drops open ever-so-slightly, and her dark eyes widen beneath the shadow of her hood. )
— Nav?
( she spares her her typical nickname, though of course not going so far as to call her by her actual name (that was something reserved for 1) her deathbed and 2) the very end of the Nine Houses itself). she continues, but harrow is scrambling to keep up. letter — what letter? and which tridentarius?! why by God's own name would she entrust something to one of them? harrow had started to approach with quick, staccato steps, but she stops dead in her tracks at the word fancy. her eyes widen again, and somewhere in the human meat hidden beneath a thick layer of alabaster and charcoal, blood flushes, blossoming into an intensely uncomfortable warmth.
at around this time, the two skeletal constructs back off a pace or two, lowering their arms and looking at one another blankly.
she has far more questions than she can feasibly put into words in the increasingly-short period of time before she implodes. but she sets all of those errant things aside for now, resuming her approach and focusing on the issue that is far, far more pressing to her (so much so that it whips her up into an uncharacteristic, feverish frenzy): )
Stop. Listen. What are you doing in my body?! — Get out of it — right now!
( this is probably her worst lapse in composure since their moment of dizzying vulnerability and confession in the saltwater pool in canaan house, but, listen. she would need the help of an industrial volumetric shit compressor to help her deal with everything she is processing in this single moment, and she is unfortunately and sorely without. )
no subject
even if they were wrapped in the trappings of her own vocal timbre, she couldn't mistake the haphazard cadence or the atrocious diction for anyone else. her mouth drops open ever-so-slightly, and her dark eyes widen beneath the shadow of her hood. )
— Nav?
( she spares her her typical nickname, though of course not going so far as to call her by her actual name (that was something reserved for 1) her deathbed and 2) the very end of the Nine Houses itself). she continues, but harrow is scrambling to keep up. letter — what letter? and which tridentarius?! why by God's own name would she entrust something to one of them? harrow had started to approach with quick, staccato steps, but she stops dead in her tracks at the word fancy. her eyes widen again, and somewhere in the human meat hidden beneath a thick layer of alabaster and charcoal, blood flushes, blossoming into an intensely uncomfortable warmth.
at around this time, the two skeletal constructs back off a pace or two, lowering their arms and looking at one another blankly.
she has far more questions than she can feasibly put into words in the increasingly-short period of time before she implodes. but she sets all of those errant things aside for now, resuming her approach and focusing on the issue that is far, far more pressing to her (so much so that it whips her up into an uncharacteristic, feverish frenzy): )
Stop. Listen. What are you doing in my body?! — Get out of it — right now!
( this is probably her worst lapse in composure since their moment of dizzying vulnerability and confession in the saltwater pool in canaan house, but, listen. she would need the help of an industrial volumetric shit compressor to help her deal with everything she is processing in this single moment, and she is unfortunately and sorely without. )