[Taciturn to a fault. Or so it appears, though Dion is amused by it, nonetheless. A strange bit of refreshing newness in a world that is nothing but. Every further thing confounds or surprises him.]
I'm not sure I would be the only one.
[To be mistaken. His hesitation continues, though, his fingers lingering on the sleeve of the rather rough-edged robes he's been given. It is a kind of cowardice that leaves his limbs heavy. His body is his own, and it has long been something he has accepted he will lose, inch by inch, as time marches on. But now, given it full control so freely and so abruptly, he --
It is too much. A thing he has only shared with one other, and always accompanied by a warning. It grows another fingerwidth higher, my prince. The words leave a sharp pang in his heart.
He disrobes, folding the clothes neatly and placing them on a nearby chair. His right arm, from just about his elbow and creeping up both north towards his shoulder and south towards his fingers, is undeniably grey. Dead. It is stone, and inflexible. As he moves onto a similar bed as the other, he keeps weight off of it. He lays, and it is an awkward bit of maneuvering to move it underneath his chin.
A vulnerable position indeed. He would be a poor soldier if it was a hindrance. As the attendant comes, Dion orders about the same: whatever you feel is best. He's made it this far, and that's about as much as he cares to decide.] Fortunate I know plenty about the eroding of stiffness.
[Plenty of soldiers were the same. The ones who had seen too much, and lost too much, to be sure. But it's an unfair amount to assume of a stranger.]
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I'm not sure I would be the only one.
[To be mistaken. His hesitation continues, though, his fingers lingering on the sleeve of the rather rough-edged robes he's been given. It is a kind of cowardice that leaves his limbs heavy. His body is his own, and it has long been something he has accepted he will lose, inch by inch, as time marches on. But now, given it full control so freely and so abruptly, he --
It is too much. A thing he has only shared with one other, and always accompanied by a warning. It grows another fingerwidth higher, my prince. The words leave a sharp pang in his heart.
He disrobes, folding the clothes neatly and placing them on a nearby chair. His right arm, from just about his elbow and creeping up both north towards his shoulder and south towards his fingers, is undeniably grey. Dead. It is stone, and inflexible. As he moves onto a similar bed as the other, he keeps weight off of it. He lays, and it is an awkward bit of maneuvering to move it underneath his chin.
A vulnerable position indeed. He would be a poor soldier if it was a hindrance. As the attendant comes, Dion orders about the same: whatever you feel is best. He's made it this far, and that's about as much as he cares to decide.] Fortunate I know plenty about the eroding of stiffness.
[Plenty of soldiers were the same. The ones who had seen too much, and lost too much, to be sure. But it's an unfair amount to assume of a stranger.]