"Oh, laugh it up," She sneers, covering embarrassment with the joke, "You'll get yours. Just wait."
He probably won't, of course; for all her retaliatory tendencies, Shepard has never been good at holding a grudge. Least of all, with him.
All around them there are people looking in their direction. Of course, no one can see them, and the attention is fleeting. It's market-day, and everyone has places to be, but the wind of their passage had been a strange gust on an otherwise sunny afternoon. Shepard gestures with her chin— c'mon, and starts off into the crowd. Soon enough they find it; an unassuming little building, the administrative center for this region's tax-collectors. There's a man in a janitor's uniform assiduously whitewashing the wall, carefully painting a pristine square, careful to leave space around a single grubby-black handprint impressed into the plaster.
Shepard squints, stepping closer, like she's trying to remember something...
"...Well, well, well," holding up her own hand for comparison. The fingers were too long, the placement too high up, the palm too square and the impression itself too uniform. It's real char, and she doesn't know how they've pulled it off, but it isn't Shepard's hand, "Somebody's getting creative."
no subject
He probably won't, of course; for all her retaliatory tendencies, Shepard has never been good at holding a grudge. Least of all, with him.
All around them there are people looking in their direction. Of course, no one can see them, and the attention is fleeting. It's market-day, and everyone has places to be, but the wind of their passage had been a strange gust on an otherwise sunny afternoon. Shepard gestures with her chin— c'mon, and starts off into the crowd. Soon enough they find it; an unassuming little building, the administrative center for this region's tax-collectors. There's a man in a janitor's uniform assiduously whitewashing the wall, carefully painting a pristine square, careful to leave space around a single grubby-black handprint impressed into the plaster.
Shepard squints, stepping closer, like she's trying to remember something...
"...Well, well, well," holding up her own hand for comparison. The fingers were too long, the placement too high up, the palm too square and the impression itself too uniform. It's real char, and she doesn't know how they've pulled it off, but it isn't Shepard's hand, "Somebody's getting creative."
And what kind of fool would falsify a godsmark?