Yet we're still more than the sum of our animal parts. [It's said patiently, with the academic cadence of all their debates; and yet there is a deep sorrow beneath it, a thing that resounds with echoes of L's conclusions. His philosophy isn't wrong but it is incomplete in its scope, and see where those unfinished edges have made an awful ruin of what should have been (will still be) a man fine as he is brilliant.
Myr does reach out to steady his Bonded, glorying a little in that he can even without sight-- And wincing at the cold flesh beneath his fingers. He should have drawn the bath hotter.]
We can and do rise beyond what's expected of us--we know we'll not reach our full potential without being put to challenges that might kill us on the way. [Once L's safely in the tub, he shucks out of his own shirt--his voice a little muffled and a wan smile hidden as he pulls it up over his head,] You've especially got a taste for stress--and if not a delusion you're already invincible, a conviction you should be.
[It breaks Myr's heart even in the admiring of it.
He folds the shirt, lays it aside where he might find it again later, and perches on the edge of the tub clad only in the kind of split kilt most accommodating for his sort of faun. What a pair they make: One dark and one pale, a gangling bird-boned Witch and a Monster with muscle more suited to the front lines than a library.]
What would you say motivates him in that? [A question asked with intent, as Myr takes up a lump of soap and holds it out to L.]
no subject
Myr does reach out to steady his Bonded, glorying a little in that he can even without sight-- And wincing at the cold flesh beneath his fingers. He should have drawn the bath hotter.]
We can and do rise beyond what's expected of us--we know we'll not reach our full potential without being put to challenges that might kill us on the way. [Once L's safely in the tub, he shucks out of his own shirt--his voice a little muffled and a wan smile hidden as he pulls it up over his head,] You've especially got a taste for stress--and if not a delusion you're already invincible, a conviction you should be.
[It breaks Myr's heart even in the admiring of it.
He folds the shirt, lays it aside where he might find it again later, and perches on the edge of the tub clad only in the kind of split kilt most accommodating for his sort of faun. What a pair they make: One dark and one pale, a gangling bird-boned Witch and a Monster with muscle more suited to the front lines than a library.]
What would you say motivates him in that? [A question asked with intent, as Myr takes up a lump of soap and holds it out to L.]