fifthofthecovenant | The Last Voyages: IC Contact

"Well, I mean, she lied to me about some stuff, and then got all pissy when I said that probably means she doesn't actually like me, so. I don't know, man. Maybe she thinks she does." And they haven't really talked much since, but he hasn't been avoiding her, she just-- hasn't been around. Possibly because of this coma thing.

He gives an exaggerated shrug. "But I'm not going to hurt her. My magic has, like. Limits on it right now. No intent to harm, or it doesn't work."

He's not expecting the outpouring of grievances—or the casualness of it, as if they're having a beer or sitting at a lunch table. It leaves him bemused, head tipped to one side, not-quite-smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

But it quickly fades once Chase starts talking about limitations. “That's fucked up,” he says, straightening. Mouth a stern line, glowering implications behind the words.

They stay implications for now. “Here, let's float her to her cabin.”

"Maybe, but it's better than nothing." He'd take a lot of limitations to have any of his power back. This is an easy one to bear.

He holds up both hands again, and twists them around like he's pulling on the air itself, and Misty's body goes from resting fireman-carry like over William's shoulder, to floating on her back in mid-air like she's laying on an invisible platform. This is an easy one. He kept this spell up all during his fight with Caleb. She drifts ahead a little, floating on a stream of magic, and William can guide her. "So her cabin, you said? You know that doesn't lock, right?"

He falls reflexively into silence as soon as Chase turns Misty over, eases her away from him—somewhere between wary and respectful. She looks too close to dead, her eyes shut and her expression impassive.

It takes William a minute or two to get the hang of steering her—and even when he does it occupies the bulk of his focus, as though it's his attention that's keeping her suspended in the air. He has to fight the urge to walk with his arms spread under her. At the comment about the door he spares Chase a quick glance. “Should I be worried?”

"I mean, I don't know, just anybody can get into Misty's room. And everyone's all up in arms about murderers lately." He follows along behind them both, hands now in his pockets now that he's done the starting spell. "I guess I could try and figure out a magic lock for her door, but then she'd have to call me to get let out, and she might not like that."

It's almost fussy, the way he repeatedly scans their surroundings for would-be interlopers, stands in front of the elevator door after it dings open so there's no risk of it shutting on her. He lets Chase decide how best to orient her—skewed sideways, tilted so she's floating vertically—and then ducks in beside her.

He waits until the doors have closed to say: “I'm one of the murderers.”

Stupid little elevators. He pulls his hands from his pockets, pulls them together, and rotates them. Misty winds up vertical, skirt rippling as if in some nonexistent wind. "Okay." Not an expected answer. "Well, as long as you're not going to murder me or Misty, I'm going to say that's not really relevant right now."

He flicks a glance to Chase, mildly puzzled. "That was your concern, wasn't it?" Murderers.

"She'll be fine," he says, almost to himself.

"No, my concern was murderers hurting Misty while she's unconscious," Chase retorts. "So as long as you're not going to hurt her, or me, I don't really care all that much." Hands go back in his pockets, and he leans back on the elevator wall with a little bump. "Anyway, I think most of the people on this ship are murderers. Even the wardens."

What a strange thing to hear from someone supposedly invested in Misty's opinion of them. By now William's facing forward—only the elevator doors receive the benefit of his dubious look.

"How many people have you killed?" he asks conversationally.

"I said most not all," Chase grouses at him, shoulders hunching in defensively, while he frantically tries to decide how much truth to tell. If any. They're in an elevator, so it's private, so that's something he supposes.

Finally he mutters, almost under his breath: "Four."

The Last Voyages: IC Contact

Re: post-ice capades port

post-ice capades port

Re: post-ice capades port

post-ice capades port

Re: post-ice capades port

post-ice capades port

Re: post-ice capades port

post-ice capades port

Re: post-ice capades port

post-ice capades port

Re: post-ice capades port