There's something both unutterably humorous and unutterably tragic in L's response (though of course, unutterable tragedy has always carried an edge of humor for Myr; there is something in him that's at an angle to the world around him, and always has been) to immediately think of the candle.]
After, [the faun calls as he strides after his Bonded,] you've had a bath and rested. And eaten something. You do brilliant work whatever condition you're in, I know-- [...hold on, that.
That may not be the best way to go about this.] --but believe me, I'd rather you healthy than my shrine a masterpiece.
[Not that he doesn't take the kind of care of it that a masterpiece warrants, even if both his copies of the Chant are the cheaper sort suitable for a Circle mage to keep as his own; even if the icon of Andraste was painted by an Aefenglomish painter who did not know Her to love Her. (He can't know how little it matches the worn images in his Reader's Edition; he had not thought to ask, only been glad someone had done the work at all.)
Fruit and wreathes of branches and dried flowers dress the little altar alongside L's handiwork, a faun's sacred impulses syncretized with an Andrastian's.]
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There's something both unutterably humorous and unutterably tragic in L's response (though of course, unutterable tragedy has always carried an edge of humor for Myr; there is something in him that's at an angle to the world around him, and always has been) to immediately think of the candle.]
After, [the faun calls as he strides after his Bonded,] you've had a bath and rested. And eaten something. You do brilliant work whatever condition you're in, I know-- [...hold on, that.
That may not be the best way to go about this.] --but believe me, I'd rather you healthy than my shrine a masterpiece.
[Not that he doesn't take the kind of care of it that a masterpiece warrants, even if both his copies of the Chant are the cheaper sort suitable for a Circle mage to keep as his own; even if the icon of Andraste was painted by an Aefenglomish painter who did not know Her to love Her. (He can't know how little it matches the worn images in his Reader's Edition; he had not thought to ask, only been glad someone had done the work at all.)
Fruit and wreathes of branches and dried flowers dress the little altar alongside L's handiwork, a faun's sacred impulses syncretized with an Andrastian's.]