This is strange, new territory for the both of them, she thinks. She'd half-expected her proximity to be met with the flapping of boney fingers, a sharp rebuke, or perhaps something worse. She expects the eyeroll, but not the one quick snort that stands in for a laugh in the wake of her (in her opinion) terribly witty joke. But things have inexorably shifted between them, and in the vacuum left behind by the old crackling, furious hate, there's...what? A new awkwardness. A new uncertainty. Something creepy and weird if the way Harrow almost waffles is anything to go by-- but maybe this is all to be expected given that the last time the necromancer had beheld her it was with a metal spike sticking out of her back.
Which reminds her that neither of them have any right to be here, not like this-- separate, whole, and in her case breathing. Whatever 'magic' the loonies who'd brought them here had used isn't to be sniffed at. It could put the King Undying to shame, just for the fact of their existence. But all of this is so far away from her area of expertise (you know-- swords, wit, incredible good looks) that it's making her head spin.
So she shrinks back from it, for now. Moves away from Harrow just enough so that she can now lean a hip against the necromancer's desk (which shifts beneath her redistributed weight), making a sound like exaggerated snoring. "I'd take Doctor Skelebone over History of the Age, Abridged. But yeah, I did notice the startling lack of skeletons around here."
Which, whilst she'd never admit to it, actually leaves her feeling a touch unsettled. Because yes the decrepit crypt of the Ninth was the rank and derelict stuff that nightmares are made of, but being around bones and the reanimated dead is all she's ever known. Even Canaan house, in all it's faded glory, had ultimately been nothing more than a slow-decaying tomb. This place, filled with a frankly dizzying opulence, she has no idea what to do with.
"Are you buying that your exploits are known far and wide, oh treasured guests crap?" she says it with a touch of feigned disdain and a sepulchral tone that could almost rival Harrow's...despite that she's distantly hopeful that there's some merit to it. Maybe they heard about her great and noble sacrifice and decided they just had to have her.
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Which reminds her that neither of them have any right to be here, not like this-- separate, whole, and in her case breathing. Whatever 'magic' the loonies who'd brought them here had used isn't to be sniffed at. It could put the King Undying to shame, just for the fact of their existence. But all of this is so far away from her area of expertise (you know-- swords, wit, incredible good looks) that it's making her head spin.
So she shrinks back from it, for now. Moves away from Harrow just enough so that she can now lean a hip against the necromancer's desk (which shifts beneath her redistributed weight), making a sound like exaggerated snoring. "I'd take Doctor Skelebone over History of the Age, Abridged. But yeah, I did notice the startling lack of skeletons around here."
Which, whilst she'd never admit to it, actually leaves her feeling a touch unsettled. Because yes the decrepit crypt of the Ninth was the rank and derelict stuff that nightmares are made of, but being around bones and the reanimated dead is all she's ever known. Even Canaan house, in all it's faded glory, had ultimately been nothing more than a slow-decaying tomb. This place, filled with a frankly dizzying opulence, she has no idea what to do with.
"Are you buying that your exploits are known far and wide, oh treasured guests crap?" she says it with a touch of feigned disdain and a sepulchral tone that could almost rival Harrow's...despite that she's distantly hopeful that there's some merit to it. Maybe they heard about her great and noble sacrifice and decided they just had to have her.