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[rowancrowned]

 

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[limier]

[ she takes the vial, waits patiently, ]

Some sort of rhyme. The contents were,

[ disturbing. wren cuts herself off, arms at the ready to catch his balance, if need be --

there isn't. her eyes widen, mouth filters open in but a moment's fear before it becomes clear: no new wound.

maker, what manner of illusion had held it at bay? she's not unfamiliar with such extensive scarring, none who have gone against mages are, but to ever guess it upon his own skin?

there's no need to belabour the obvious: i can do this to you, at any time.
they're both aware. the impulse remains, and she might feel the barest shame for it were he not who he is to gwenaelle. who he intends to become to her.

it's a brief business to undo her sash. she stoops, offers it over. it's as much practicality as courtesy: they can't take him past the servants like this. ]

Further into the garden, I think; a few hours. And I will show you how it is most often concealed.

[ the magebane. not his super fucked up face. ]

[rowancrowned]

[ hands shaking, he takes the sash and loosely hoods his face. he manages a knot, one-handed, still holding on to a fistful of leaves that scatter against the garden ground once he releases them, broken and wrinkled. ]

Yes, [ he agrees, inhaling through his nose. ] Yes, we will.

[ he puts one foot in front of the other and keeps close to her for practicalities' sake; he will not hurt himself by falling in gwenaelle's garden and further wounding himself. the humiliation of wren needing to catch him is offset by the thought of gwenaelle's face, of getting a scolding, of her seeing this. he is not ready to tell her about the death of his father, or the last alliance.

when they make it to the bench, he steps past wren to get there first, to plant himself down on it and nearly tear off the sash as fast as he is able. he offers it back to her in a ball, and rests his forearms on his knees. leaning forward, his hair curtains his face and offers some protection. ]

I need a moment more, I- [ he hates this, he will do whatever needs to be done so he is not forced through this again. he can taste copper on his tongue. ] Show me how it is concealed.

[ he can muster concentration. ]

[limier]

[ She folds it away, takes her time at it — allows him that small measure of privacy before her eyes need turn over him once more. (She's not in the habit of averting them, not about to so begin.) ]

The taste and colouring are too distinctive to be hidden by weaker flavours; if you’ve preference for bitters, I should avoid them hereon.

[ A step back from the bench, what space she might grant, yet shield him if necessary. ]

It is less noticeable in alcohol, in tonics, even when passed as mundane lyrium. [ Though that requires its own degree of unfamiliarity. And, like, a shitload of dye. ] An injection will serve, or any other means of entering the blood; I have known its use upon blades.

There is tell of its inhalation, as a perfume, but this may be a fanciful intrigue, one I've not opportunity to test. Upon a cloth it will dissipate too quickly for much effect.