Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away
Unmoving, she merely watched him draw nearer. There was no tension in her, neither from threat or fear or unease, but there was no real welcome either. Harper might as well have been the rain for all that she seemed to care - a talkative raincloud with a lot of free time on its hands.
The slight twitch of an eyebrow could have been surprise. "... have you. That's is... nice. I suppose. Would not have thought you'd notice much." It was not as if they were close.
A shrub somewhere close shuddered under the weight of accumulated water. Cascading droplets pattered against the damp ground, a thousand thrumming fingertips on slackened drumskins. Maea pulled a strand of soggy hair behind an ear, in a gesture that had survived even death.
"The Voice," she replied simply. As if that was all the explanation he would need to grasp the absurdity of the situation.
The slight twitch of an eyebrow could have been surprise. "... have you. That's is... nice. I suppose. Would not have thought you'd notice much." It was not as if they were close.
A shrub somewhere close shuddered under the weight of accumulated water. Cascading droplets pattered against the damp ground, a thousand thrumming fingertips on slackened drumskins. Maea pulled a strand of soggy hair behind an ear, in a gesture that had survived even death.
"The Voice," she replied simply. As if that was all the explanation he would need to grasp the absurdity of the situation.
