[The silence that falls over them along with the fog feels infinite, but in a suffocating sort of way. It rings in her ears louder than the thunder that fades, louder than the waves that still crash against the sides of the boat before they calm. They stand in the middle of their creation, one made by their magicks and theirs alone, and yet, it has never felt so cold as it does when she hears him move away from her. So cold that even that fiery rage that burned within her at the mere thought of him has been dampened somewhat...
Though, into what, she doesn't know. It's still there, that flickering flame, trying to cling to life, but there's an emptiness there, too... cold and vast, just like the fog that surrounds them.
Carefully, Benedikta lifts her gaze to follow his back as he steps to the end of the boat and looks out.
It was so much easier when they had been bickering and at each other's throats. She would much prefer that to the quiet, where it leaves too much room for more thoughts to creep forward. She would prefer anything over this—the clash of swords or words over this.
But instead, he'll hear her turn around now, moving to the other end of the boat, or seems to... but she doesn't go very far, and instead takes a spot at its side so that she can look over the edge and watch for any shadows that might move up near the surface, a hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
And then, her voice.]
... You are looking well.
[She has no idea what prompted her to say so. If she's honest, he looks like shit, and she probably does, too. But he looks better than how she feels, and she finds that annoying.]
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Though, into what, she doesn't know. It's still there, that flickering flame, trying to cling to life, but there's an emptiness there, too... cold and vast, just like the fog that surrounds them.
Carefully, Benedikta lifts her gaze to follow his back as he steps to the end of the boat and looks out.
It was so much easier when they had been bickering and at each other's throats. She would much prefer that to the quiet, where it leaves too much room for more thoughts to creep forward. She would prefer anything over this—the clash of swords or words over this.
But instead, he'll hear her turn around now, moving to the other end of the boat, or seems to... but she doesn't go very far, and instead takes a spot at its side so that she can look over the edge and watch for any shadows that might move up near the surface, a hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
And then, her voice.]
... You are looking well.
[She has no idea what prompted her to say so. If she's honest, he looks like shit, and she probably does, too. But he looks better than how she feels, and she finds that annoying.]