Not that things have ever really felt normal around here; even setting aside the narrowly avoided disaster of the Blight, throwing a bunch of people from disparate worlds into one place and telling them there’s a ticket home (or to a better place) on the line, and well. Things are bound to get messy. And the frequent buzzing in her thoughts thanks to the Shard-bearers’ shared Communion space is certainly a testament to that.
She expected that after her extended nap, after her field trip to the Isles, that things might mellow out for a while. But Highstorm celebrates the recent Zenith victory in its own low-key way, while Springstar feels oddly subdued in the wake of defeat. And that means tensions are high, which Gavial frankly finds all too annoying. Particularly when she just wants to spend some time in Springstar, in the sunshine and away from the gloom, amongst bustling streets filled with people who (usually) are filled with a pep that aligns with her own temperament more often than not. But rising Discord and side-long glances be damned, she is going to do what she wants.
Bumping into a familiar face isn’t that uncommon around the city—naturally it tends to be those who’ve thrown their lot in with Meridian, but every so often she finds herself faced with a curve ball. This one she nearly misses, caught up in the bustle of the foot traffic during what passes for Springstar’s bright and sunny evening. Seems like just another busy soul hurrying on home after a long day.
But if there’s one thing Gavial’s learned after spending years patching up stubborn idiots who think they can ignore the fact that they’re in need of help, it’s how to spot someone trying to pass off an injury as no big deal. So first, there’s the notice of something that seems just slightly off in her periphery. When her focus shifts, there’s recognition that follows. Melshi—or Cassian, or whatever the hell nickname the guy wanted to use now—storming ahead with a purpose that is distinctly at odds with the faintly exhausted cast of his expression. And then, of course, there’s the blood soaking through his sleeve.
So she halts, pivoting smoothly on her feet just as they’re about to pass each other by.]
Woah, wait up.
[A hand catches him by the edge of his coat and tugs. Insistently.]
no subject
Not that things have ever really felt normal around here; even setting aside the narrowly avoided disaster of the Blight, throwing a bunch of people from disparate worlds into one place and telling them there’s a ticket home (or to a better place) on the line, and well. Things are bound to get messy. And the frequent buzzing in her thoughts thanks to the Shard-bearers’ shared Communion space is certainly a testament to that.
She expected that after her extended nap, after her field trip to the Isles, that things might mellow out for a while. But Highstorm celebrates the recent Zenith victory in its own low-key way, while Springstar feels oddly subdued in the wake of defeat. And that means tensions are high, which Gavial frankly finds all too annoying. Particularly when she just wants to spend some time in Springstar, in the sunshine and away from the gloom, amongst bustling streets filled with people who (usually) are filled with a pep that aligns with her own temperament more often than not. But rising Discord and side-long glances be damned, she is going to do what she wants.
Bumping into a familiar face isn’t that uncommon around the city—naturally it tends to be those who’ve thrown their lot in with Meridian, but every so often she finds herself faced with a curve ball. This one she nearly misses, caught up in the bustle of the foot traffic during what passes for Springstar’s bright and sunny evening. Seems like just another busy soul hurrying on home after a long day.
But if there’s one thing Gavial’s learned after spending years patching up stubborn idiots who think they can ignore the fact that they’re in need of help, it’s how to spot someone trying to pass off an injury as no big deal. So first, there’s the notice of something that seems just slightly off in her periphery. When her focus shifts, there’s recognition that follows. Melshi—or Cassian, or whatever the hell nickname the guy wanted to use now—storming ahead with a purpose that is distinctly at odds with the faintly exhausted cast of his expression. And then, of course, there’s the blood soaking through his sleeve.
So she halts, pivoting smoothly on her feet just as they’re about to pass each other by.]
Woah, wait up.
[A hand catches him by the edge of his coat and tugs. Insistently.]