[He assumes, of course, that he's marked and catalogued just the same at the same time, as effortlessly as he's been marking everyone else with a glimmer of the otherworldly to them. Witches have their ways of knowing, even if he doesn't know what about his kind stands out to theirs, merely that it does.
And he expects that to be the end of it--marking, mutual acknowledgement, and carrying on. He would much rather let the witch go about his business; watching, perhaps, where his efforts take him. Magic is their forte. If any creature should make inroads here, it would likely be a witch.
But he couldn't fail to notice when the witch in the feathered mask goes from circulating around the crowd to rounding on him.
Briefly, Kit considers abandoning his nearly-finished glass of some sweet-tasting liquor on the side table and retreating with the hope the witch will leave him be, but some vestige of sullen pride keeps him seated, pressing his back farther into the cushion. Inwardly bracing for whatever's to come, for much the same reason he'd resisted Hubbard's offer to install a witch in his household--ostensibly to care for the chores, in actuality to keep an eye on him. He'd believed so many stories about them were just inflated myths, but after her, and the firedrake--
Too late to change course now. A loudly chatting couple moves out of the way, accompanied by the clacking of the woman's pearl necklace, and the other creature steps out from behind them. The thinness in the smile might be the most familiar thing from home he's encountered thus far.
Adjusting for height, he lifts his chin, gaze landing first on the matching yellow sigil, then climbing; at this distance their eyes have no trouble locking on, reinforcing what he can already tell.]
I thought I was.
[Being friendly. At a distance. Politely ignoring one another, as incidents of shared spaces oft goes.]
no subject
And he expects that to be the end of it--marking, mutual acknowledgement, and carrying on. He would much rather let the witch go about his business; watching, perhaps, where his efforts take him. Magic is their forte. If any creature should make inroads here, it would likely be a witch.
But he couldn't fail to notice when the witch in the feathered mask goes from circulating around the crowd to rounding on him.
Briefly, Kit considers abandoning his nearly-finished glass of some sweet-tasting liquor on the side table and retreating with the hope the witch will leave him be, but some vestige of sullen pride keeps him seated, pressing his back farther into the cushion. Inwardly bracing for whatever's to come, for much the same reason he'd resisted Hubbard's offer to install a witch in his household--ostensibly to care for the chores, in actuality to keep an eye on him. He'd believed so many stories about them were just inflated myths, but after her, and the firedrake--
Too late to change course now. A loudly chatting couple moves out of the way, accompanied by the clacking of the woman's pearl necklace, and the other creature steps out from behind them. The thinness in the smile might be the most familiar thing from home he's encountered thus far.
Adjusting for height, he lifts his chin, gaze landing first on the matching yellow sigil, then climbing; at this distance their eyes have no trouble locking on, reinforcing what he can already tell.]
I thought I was.
[Being friendly. At a distance. Politely ignoring one another, as incidents of shared spaces oft goes.]