Oh. No pay. Whatever response she might have made is lost to everything happening.
Marge’s grandson makes another squeaky appeal for help, this time handing Franklin to Herian so he can make sure she doesn’t put herself (and the rest of them) in danger from the shemlen.
Franklin stops thrashing, though his lips remain curled back, ire etched about his nose.
It seems evident enough that Franklin was the catalyst for things going awry, initially, and as more people arrive she does not know their position on snarling dogs. For all that she cannot feel, she knows he was her companion, that he was being protective, and that she had an obligation to him. She does not need to feel to recognise that calming him is a necessity. Ear scratches, then: a well-proven method.
“Enough, Franklin.”
Flat, not quite the same as calming. (He whines as he tries to lick her face, and though he’s not growling any more, each exhale comes as an extended grumble.)
“The Knights of Midnight Sun ordered me hence,” she says, before falling silent once more. Gwenaëlle had said for one person to explain, hadn’t she?
Her appearance might tell something of a story. None of her usual warriors garb; a dress that might have been feminine, though the dirt and muck ground into it make it hard to tell much of anything about it. She has shoes, at least, but they’re not of any decent quality, things that are falling apart, a big enough hole in one showing most of her toes. The brand on her forehead is fresh, but her skin is smeared with sweat and grime, obfuscating parts of the wound and blistering.
no subject
Marge’s grandson makes another squeaky appeal for help, this time handing Franklin to Herian so he can make sure she doesn’t put herself (and the rest of them) in danger from the shemlen.
Franklin stops thrashing, though his lips remain curled back, ire etched about his nose.
It seems evident enough that Franklin was the catalyst for things going awry, initially, and as more people arrive she does not know their position on snarling dogs. For all that she cannot feel, she knows he was her companion, that he was being protective, and that she had an obligation to him. She does not need to feel to recognise that calming him is a necessity. Ear scratches, then: a well-proven method.
“Enough, Franklin.”
Flat, not quite the same as calming. (He whines as he tries to lick her face, and though he’s not growling any more, each exhale comes as an extended grumble.)
“The Knights of Midnight Sun ordered me hence,” she says, before falling silent once more. Gwenaëlle had said for one person to explain, hadn’t she?
Her appearance might tell something of a story. None of her usual warriors garb; a dress that might have been feminine, though the dirt and muck ground into it make it hard to tell much of anything about it. She has shoes, at least, but they’re not of any decent quality, things that are falling apart, a big enough hole in one showing most of her toes. The brand on her forehead is fresh, but her skin is smeared with sweat and grime, obfuscating parts of the wound and blistering.