...Oh. ( what? the fuck? ) A revenant?( she can't think of any other explanation; she has seen gideon's mother's bones herself, interred in one of innumerable drearburh burial niches. God, but that she had been dead before harrow had even been born. what kind of revenant...
there is so much to break apart and break down in those few sentences that for a full ten seconds, harrow completely whites out, reverting to crass, base instincts. ) I see. Well, that must have been quite an Oedipal conundrum for you, then.
( AND THE FUCKED UP THING IS THAT SHE JUST MEANS HER ASSUMPTION THAT HER MOTHER (A REVENANT) WAS POSSESSING THE BODY OF A WOMAN SHE KNEW GIDEON TO HAVE FANCIED (who was not dulcinea septimus?? a lyctor?!), AND DOESN'T EVEN INFRINGE UPON WHAT SHE DOES NOT KNOW, WHICH IS THAT THE TARGET OF SAID ASSASSINATION WOULD BE HER FATHER—
regardless, as calmly as she had said it, harrow is convinced that within the next ten seconds, she will have her own lifeblood leaking from her ears, soon leading to death by catastrophic brain hemorrhaging. her promise to gideon would mean nothing if her brain gave up on its own. )
You know nothing you've said makes any sense.
( she lifts both hands to knead at her temples. two lyctors (and the corpse of a third), attempting to kill God? that's impossible. his Fingers and Gestures were not and should not be capable (and perhaps that was why it had only been an attempt). she is still attempting to stymie a skull-cracking headache, eyes squeezed shut, when she continues in an exhausted tone, ) It's merely the explanation that best suits the facts at hand.
( she lowers her hands, and her eyes open. she looks to the air above them, as if everything gideon had said had manifested there, monolithic, like a colossal fuck-off rosetta stone which she would have to spend the next few hours — days — weeks? — transcribing information to divine understanding and meaning from. but if she began doing that now, she would be useless (or possibly soon dead). so she forces herself to turn away from it, for now, and she instead turns to gideon. she is silent for a moment here, the blockage of her throat returning; she is disgustingly close to becoming sentimental. but this is harrowhark nonagesimus we are talking about, and no manner of emotionally-fraught pool-bound confessions would make that mutable. )
In any case. Though you arrive late, and in an incredibly inopportune state, ( which, looking at her now, is threatening to make her complete her long, slow journey to "stark raving mad" with record speed, merely considering the implications, ) it's — good, that you're finally here.
( a necromancer without her cavalier is a sorry thing. )
no subject
there is so much to break apart and break down in those few sentences that for a full ten seconds, harrow completely whites out, reverting to crass, base instincts. ) I see. Well, that must have been quite an Oedipal conundrum for you, then.
( AND THE FUCKED UP THING IS THAT SHE JUST MEANS HER ASSUMPTION THAT HER MOTHER (A REVENANT) WAS POSSESSING THE BODY OF A WOMAN SHE KNEW GIDEON TO HAVE FANCIED (who was not dulcinea septimus?? a lyctor?!), AND DOESN'T EVEN INFRINGE UPON WHAT SHE DOES NOT KNOW, WHICH IS THAT THE TARGET OF SAID ASSASSINATION WOULD BE HER FATHER—
regardless, as calmly as she had said it, harrow is convinced that within the next ten seconds, she will have her own lifeblood leaking from her ears, soon leading to death by catastrophic brain hemorrhaging. her promise to gideon would mean nothing if her brain gave up on its own. )
You know nothing you've said makes any sense.
( she lifts both hands to knead at her temples. two lyctors (and the corpse of a third), attempting to kill God? that's impossible. his Fingers and Gestures were not and should not be capable (and perhaps that was why it had only been an attempt). she is still attempting to stymie a skull-cracking headache, eyes squeezed shut, when she continues in an exhausted tone, ) It's merely the explanation that best suits the facts at hand.
( she lowers her hands, and her eyes open. she looks to the air above them, as if everything gideon had said had manifested there, monolithic, like a colossal fuck-off rosetta stone which she would have to spend the next few hours — days — weeks? — transcribing information to divine understanding and meaning from. but if she began doing that now, she would be useless (or possibly soon dead). so she forces herself to turn away from it, for now, and she instead turns to gideon. she is silent for a moment here, the blockage of her throat returning; she is disgustingly close to becoming sentimental. but this is harrowhark nonagesimus we are talking about, and no manner of emotionally-fraught pool-bound confessions would make that mutable. )
In any case. Though you arrive late, and in an incredibly inopportune state, ( which, looking at her now, is threatening to make her complete her long, slow journey to "stark raving mad" with record speed, merely considering the implications, ) it's — good, that you're finally here.
( a necromancer without her cavalier is a sorry thing. )