Daemon watched her idly as she dug through her bag. She was carrying a great deal, it seemed. More than he would assume for a simple outing or jaunt to a workplace. When she produced the map, however, he quirked a small smile her way and didn't pretend he hadn't been watching.
Map in hand, however, he passed his other hand over the table to make sure it wasn't damp. The small spots of water he found, he vanished with a wiping motion, then spread the map out so that he might peruse it.
He hardly noticed the little scribbles. The map, emblazoned with letters and words in the common tongue of the Blood, was of a place he'd very obviously never even heard of before. A strange feeling began to bubble in his chest as he looked up at her, gold eyes fixing on her face as she tried to explain precisely how bizarre her question was.
"A democracy," he said in a low, warm murmur, mostly to himself. A little louder, he said, "That was a useful answer, regardless of what I had intended by my question."
With a little considering, he realized that the swiftest way to an explanation would be to tell the truth. His context and experience was far enough removed that his questions raised suspicions. And, well, if telling her the truth went poorly, well, he could see how well her mind stood up to his. He wasn't exactly helpless.
"Draega, Hayll," he told her.
He glanced around the bar, spotting a couple of older bargoers leaving--and leaving behind a half-filled basket of fries. Rather than leave the fries unattended, he called them to their table--popping them out of existence there and into existence where he wanted them with a thought--and let the basket rest on air a fraction of an inch above the map. It wouldn't do to sully her map with grease, after all.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2019-05-18 02:29 am (UTC)Map in hand, however, he passed his other hand over the table to make sure it wasn't damp. The small spots of water he found, he vanished with a wiping motion, then spread the map out so that he might peruse it.
He hardly noticed the little scribbles. The map, emblazoned with letters and words in the common tongue of the Blood, was of a place he'd very obviously never even heard of before. A strange feeling began to bubble in his chest as he looked up at her, gold eyes fixing on her face as she tried to explain precisely how bizarre her question was.
"A democracy," he said in a low, warm murmur, mostly to himself. A little louder, he said, "That was a useful answer, regardless of what I had intended by my question."
With a little considering, he realized that the swiftest way to an explanation would be to tell the truth. His context and experience was far enough removed that his questions raised suspicions. And, well, if telling her the truth went poorly, well, he could see how well her mind stood up to his. He wasn't exactly helpless.
"Draega, Hayll," he told her.
He glanced around the bar, spotting a couple of older bargoers leaving--and leaving behind a half-filled basket of fries. Rather than leave the fries unattended, he called them to their table--popping them out of existence there and into existence where he wanted them with a thought--and let the basket rest on air a fraction of an inch above the map. It wouldn't do to sully her map with grease, after all.
He popped a fry into his mouth.
"It's a very long way from here."