Well, I for one am pleased to be disappointed in this case! And hopeful that their innovation lies in other things.
[Technology, culture, the arts- et cetera. Not in things as pointless as harming each other.
Yet. He knows just as well as Emet-Selch that discovery is no straight line. For this short-term success and long-term failure, for ten others, twenty even- they will pave the way to success eventually. Lessons learned in failures are utilized to make successes more reachable. It is that way in all things.
Yet the subject of the crudely imagined, manufactured, and executed weapon is long past. His healing is reduced- yes. Barely capable of mending the slightest injury now, for reasons he suspects are due to the Singularity yet hadn't found the time to make a reasonable effort to investigate as of yet. But it is enough- with a playfully hummed tune, and the press of his hand upon the area which elicited that awful sound, to allow it to heal properly. To encourage blood flow, to soothe inflamed sinew, and to relax tense muscle.
Yet the Allagan word, the strange word, uttered quietly but aggressive in structure, uncouth, even unpleasant- has his hand draw away in the midst of execution. Causes those sweet and soft notes to die in his throat. And before he can say anything, query anything- his friend speaks once more- this time in their familiar tongue. And he does not sound agitated. Nor displeased. Nor pained. So... ]
Certainly. If you'll remove your cowl.
[And yes, he's going to help with that. Up and over Emet-Selch's head it goes- and it is folded a few times and placed to the side. And oh, it is a heavy thing- a far cry from even robes worn in winter. The thought is unvoiced, for what is revealed to him is... different.
Eons ago, they had seen each other bare. The extent of their knowledge of each other had made such common. But that was a different body. The Garlean variant of hyuran Emet-Selch has taken that sits before him is similar in some respects. Yet utterly different in others.
He sees flaws in evolution. He can't not- the bone structure far too heavy-set, and the torso and the arms seem far too short. Much less the neck! It is almost as if the body is compressed. ...But it is (oddly) pretty in other ways. The way the shoulders- though bent forward slightly due to poor posture- are larger than even their own. The way his muscles are defined is pleasing- quite dissimilar to the way that-
Ah, his muscles. Yes, That's what he was doing. Giving Emet-Selch a final glance, he moves himself to repeat his action, letting up when the crack of the other shoulder fills the empty air around them. And that area is healed in the same manner. And as he moves closer, so his head is perched over the other's shoulder, parallel to his, his hand draws down to the small of his back. The other arm lightly holds his right shoulder.]
Breathe out.
[The shoulder is pulled. His palm presses the small of the other's back forward with even force. A great, long crunching sound fills the tent as Emet-Selch's spine should find itself moved, again, into proper alignment. Again, that healing spell.
...And a quiet laugh.]
I'll thank you not to complain. This may feel cold.
[He is forewarned, not without due cause. The lotion- a little something sheer luck had found Hythlodaeus possessing- is somewhat chill against warm skin. Yet it is also soothing. And as it is spread, gently, along the broad expanse of Emet-Selch's shoulders and back, it should be somewhat pleasant. At least for the skin that had been manipulated and pulled and pushed during this little session, the sign of Hythlodaeus' work presenting itself in red marks upon it.
As for an aded bonus, it smells good. Perhaps not as good as Hythlodaeus himself, as fresh from the baths as he is- but perhaps halfway there. ...And oh. He can't help himself. A little peck of a kiss, some quiet, lingering affection, finds itself at the base of Emet-Selch's neck.
And as he withdraws, to procure himself some of the wine...]
I doubt now is the time, but you should know something. I met with someone today...
[A sip. And he cradles his glass, lowering it- but not putting it down.]
...Someone who possesses the seat of Fandaniel. Yet not our one. [A slight pause.] ...Not quite. The soul is there, most certainly. Yet the soul, I think, is destroyed.
[And...]
The soul that replaces it, in my opinion, is not one suited for the seat.
no subject
[Technology, culture, the arts- et cetera. Not in things as pointless as harming each other.
Yet. He knows just as well as Emet-Selch that discovery is no straight line. For this short-term success and long-term failure, for ten others, twenty even- they will pave the way to success eventually. Lessons learned in failures are utilized to make successes more reachable. It is that way in all things.
Yet the subject of the crudely imagined, manufactured, and executed weapon is long past. His healing is reduced- yes. Barely capable of mending the slightest injury now, for reasons he suspects are due to the Singularity yet hadn't found the time to make a reasonable effort to investigate as of yet. But it is enough- with a playfully hummed tune, and the press of his hand upon the area which elicited that awful sound, to allow it to heal properly. To encourage blood flow, to soothe inflamed sinew, and to relax tense muscle.
Yet the Allagan word, the strange word, uttered quietly but aggressive in structure, uncouth, even unpleasant- has his hand draw away in the midst of execution. Causes those sweet and soft notes to die in his throat. And before he can say anything, query anything- his friend speaks once more- this time in their familiar tongue. And he does not sound agitated. Nor displeased. Nor pained. So... ]
Certainly. If you'll remove your cowl.
[And yes, he's going to help with that. Up and over Emet-Selch's head it goes- and it is folded a few times and placed to the side. And oh, it is a heavy thing- a far cry from even robes worn in winter. The thought is unvoiced, for what is revealed to him is... different.
Eons ago, they had seen each other bare. The extent of their knowledge of each other had made such common. But that was a different body. The Garlean variant of hyuran Emet-Selch has taken that sits before him is similar in some respects. Yet utterly different in others.
He sees flaws in evolution. He can't not- the bone structure far too heavy-set, and the torso and the arms seem far too short. Much less the neck! It is almost as if the body is compressed.
...But it is (oddly) pretty in other ways. The way the shoulders- though bent forward slightly due to poor posture- are larger than even their own. The way his muscles are defined is pleasing- quite dissimilar to the way that-
Ah, his muscles.
Yes, That's what he was doing.
Giving Emet-Selch a final glance, he moves himself to repeat his action, letting up when the crack of the other shoulder fills the empty air around them. And that area is healed in the same manner. And as he moves closer, so his head is perched over the other's shoulder, parallel to his, his hand draws down to the small of his back. The other arm lightly holds his right shoulder.]
Breathe out.
[The shoulder is pulled. His palm presses the small of the other's back forward with even force. A great, long crunching sound fills the tent as Emet-Selch's spine should find itself moved, again, into proper alignment. Again, that healing spell.
...And a quiet laugh.]
I'll thank you not to complain. This may feel cold.
[He is forewarned, not without due cause. The lotion- a little something sheer luck had found Hythlodaeus possessing- is somewhat chill against warm skin. Yet it is also soothing. And as it is spread, gently, along the broad expanse of Emet-Selch's shoulders and back, it should be somewhat pleasant. At least for the skin that had been manipulated and pulled and pushed during this little session, the sign of Hythlodaeus' work presenting itself in red marks upon it.
As for an aded bonus, it smells good. Perhaps not as good as Hythlodaeus himself, as fresh from the baths as he is- but perhaps halfway there. ...And oh. He can't help himself. A little peck of a kiss, some quiet, lingering affection, finds itself at the base of Emet-Selch's neck.
And as he withdraws, to procure himself some of the wine...]
I doubt now is the time, but you should know something. I met with someone today...
[A sip. And he cradles his glass, lowering it- but not putting it down.]
...Someone who possesses the seat of Fandaniel. Yet not our one. [A slight pause.] ...Not quite. The soul is there, most certainly. Yet the soul, I think, is destroyed.
[And...]
The soul that replaces it, in my opinion, is not one suited for the seat.