[Now his attentions are not on trying to keep himself human, to keep himself from burning both solar and Dominant to the ground -- to not smother such roiling anger in the presence of the Empire's enemy and Clive's mentor in the first place -- Dion allows himself a look.
It is only the one, and it does not linger long. But there is a shape to him, his weight against the desk, in a space that has crafted itself out of memory and nostalgia. A place, Dion imagines, where he feels safe, even in the ruins of a fellow race of victims to their arrogance. The irony is not lost upon him. Ramuh does not dream of the lands they left behind, of throne rooms or battlefields or a wide stretch of untouched, unBlighted land. It is an office, a hole in a wall, and a home.
And in it: two dead men who speak of life. The growth one can find in it. Is this hope?
Or is it the taste of lightning on his tongue? Scales against skin? Riding a storm the way he rode the winds?]
I would expect nothing less than your judgement. [Now, maybe, he does laugh -- a muted sound that may pass as something akin to it. It is a mad world he finds himself living in once again. A mad world of impossibilities. His dragon, ever at his side, finally peeks from her bag, having noted the change in the air.] I shall not miss our next appointment. [If he means to make one... Dion steps towards the path that shall lead him out of the ruins once more, but pauses.] As my reason for coming in the first place, I request we keep such memories to ourselves.
[It is enough to say it, but as he does, it betrays what may have been on his mind. With that, the door rolls open to release him, and the sound of stone on stone rumbles behind as it closes once more. He does not yet take to the skies -- a part of him hesitates upon it, even now -- but he feels intrigue unravel in him instead of once-expected anger, and that itself is worth noting.]
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It is only the one, and it does not linger long. But there is a shape to him, his weight against the desk, in a space that has crafted itself out of memory and nostalgia. A place, Dion imagines, where he feels safe, even in the ruins of a fellow race of victims to their arrogance. The irony is not lost upon him. Ramuh does not dream of the lands they left behind, of throne rooms or battlefields or a wide stretch of untouched, unBlighted land. It is an office, a hole in a wall, and a home.
And in it: two dead men who speak of life. The growth one can find in it. Is this hope?
Or is it the taste of lightning on his tongue? Scales against skin? Riding a storm the way he rode the winds?]
I would expect nothing less than your judgement. [Now, maybe, he does laugh -- a muted sound that may pass as something akin to it. It is a mad world he finds himself living in once again. A mad world of impossibilities. His dragon, ever at his side, finally peeks from her bag, having noted the change in the air.] I shall not miss our next appointment. [If he means to make one... Dion steps towards the path that shall lead him out of the ruins once more, but pauses.] As my reason for coming in the first place, I request we keep such memories to ourselves.
[It is enough to say it, but as he does, it betrays what may have been on his mind. With that, the door rolls open to release him, and the sound of stone on stone rumbles behind as it closes once more. He does not yet take to the skies -- a part of him hesitates upon it, even now -- but he feels intrigue unravel in him instead of once-expected anger, and that itself is worth noting.]