[What he's doing is this: a strange mix of meditation and seeking, his eyes closed, his books circling him in an erractic whorl. The fractal pieces of so many possibilities, turning and reflecting and radiating around him. He "sits" at a desk, though sitting is more like floating, his cape billowing about him like he's underwater. The trance is deep; the focus is unerring.
Well, almost unerring.
A voice interrupts his focus; a voice of a fellow god, and one that's more familiar to him than most, is perhaps the only thing that would break his reverie. But break it, he does.
Stephen jolts out of his focus. The books fly away in opposite directions, and the fractal, mirrored pieces of reality shimmer in protest.]
What-
[Eyes blink, widen, and look at Steve. Confusion sweeping over his features in lieu of a dark brow pinching.]
What is it? I'm-- Busy. Problem-solving.
[Which may be a kind way of saying: having a minor freakout.]
no subject
Well, almost unerring.
A voice interrupts his focus; a voice of a fellow god, and one that's more familiar to him than most, is perhaps the only thing that would break his reverie. But break it, he does.
Stephen jolts out of his focus. The books fly away in opposite directions, and the fractal, mirrored pieces of reality shimmer in protest.]
What-
[Eyes blink, widen, and look at Steve. Confusion sweeping over his features in lieu of a dark brow pinching.]
What is it? I'm-- Busy. Problem-solving.
[Which may be a kind way of saying: having a minor freakout.]