"I'm never going to need spooky necro shit," she says reproachfully, but the defiance has lost its bite. She steps away from the wall, closer to his space, eyes on that perfect, perfect blade, tilts her head a little to watch the way it catches the light. Gideon does not reach out. Her posture doesn't relax. It doesn't become any more open. But her interest is unmistakable: the way her eyes drink it in, the way her hand flexes where it rests on her bicep.
She knows a necromancer needs a cavalier, knows they're stronger with someone cutting things down. Is that it? It's the most plausible conclusion she can reach: he's lost his fuel source, and he's grabbing the first one that comes along, and he's not even really bothering to check whether she's lying about her ability to fill the role.
He's desperate. That must be it.
"You don't know me," she says, unsure. There's something dense building in her chest: a provocative lull of being needed, the incredible urge to reach out and grab it. "I could just take this and stick you with it. I could take it and leave and never talk to you again, and you wouldn't be able to do shit, and then you'd be out your sword and still without a cavalier."
no subject
She knows a necromancer needs a cavalier, knows they're stronger with someone cutting things down. Is that it? It's the most plausible conclusion she can reach: he's lost his fuel source, and he's grabbing the first one that comes along, and he's not even really bothering to check whether she's lying about her ability to fill the role.
He's desperate. That must be it.
"You don't know me," she says, unsure. There's something dense building in her chest: a provocative lull of being needed, the incredible urge to reach out and grab it. "I could just take this and stick you with it. I could take it and leave and never talk to you again, and you wouldn't be able to do shit, and then you'd be out your sword and still without a cavalier."