[He watches her touch the seam where false skin meets real. Next to that ghostly impression of power brushing against his senses as delicate as a cobweb, it remains the most eye-catching part of her evening wear. And the most obvious outward sign she's not all that she appears to be. No less than him. Reluctantly, he finds himself the slightest bit glad for his; it hides as much as it reveals, though he makes no effort to conceal that he's studying her with a reserved sort of curiosity.
He's never gotten such a feeling from a witch before--at least not so acutely dark--but that manner of power usually belongs to witches, thus it's the best-fitting word he has for her.
If she is a witch, he's not above accepting the possibility that very same power may grant her unique insight.]
It's an enchantment of some kind. [The space he leaves after the statement is a query in and of itself, wordless, offering room for another's otherworldly opinion. In this there's no point to obstinacy; he must defer to experience outside his own, even if packages in such a young, frail form.] You feel it?
no subject
He's never gotten such a feeling from a witch before--at least not so acutely dark--but that manner of power usually belongs to witches, thus it's the best-fitting word he has for her.
If she is a witch, he's not above accepting the possibility that very same power may grant her unique insight.]
It's an enchantment of some kind. [The space he leaves after the statement is a query in and of itself, wordless, offering room for another's otherworldly opinion. In this there's no point to obstinacy; he must defer to experience outside his own, even if packages in such a young, frail form.] You feel it?