draconic nuisance

the grave priestess tilts her head, mirroring zilv’ithra without even meaning to, though where the drow’s frown is sharp and guarded, sayén’s expression is simply thoughtful. a little curious, a little sad.

she taps her spoon once against the rim of her own bowl — a soft, absent chime, and then sets it down with a quiet clink.

“dying things have the habit of finding me, so it is not hard to figure out you might have.”　might have died — she leaves unsaid, shrugging one bare shoulder. the gesture is loose, easy. unbothered.　

“i don't always like the dying things that find me, but i like you so much.”　sayén declares warmly. beamingly, even.　“so i am glad i can make sure you don't die all the way.”

then her right hand lifts and extends across the space between them, palm up.

open. waiting.

her black eyes are big, round and earnest, and there's something almost childlike in the gesture — not quite demanding, but pleading to be allowed to watch her pulse.

"Ah, that sounds fun," she says sarcastically. Her frown remains even as she reluctantly stretches out her left hand and places it into Sayén's, adamantine fingers cool against Sayén's pink skin. She surpresses the urge to pull away. "Do you usually have an entourage of dead following you then?"

Lavender eyes study the tiny elf curiously in the low light of the tavern. Sayén's earnestness makes Zil uneasy most days, unsure how to react and whether to trust it in the first place. Even now, after having traveled together for a while, she always has to keep reminding herself that sayén is simply being kind and the nonsensical feeling of being flayed alive is simply her own, battered, paranoid brain torturing her.

at zil's question, sayén's lips part. her head tilts curiously, pale rose hair spilling across one bare shoulder — she has, predictably, shed most of her clothing again, though she did keep a simple priestess robe on tonight. a concession, perhaps. or perhaps simply because indecent exposure in public spaces is quite illegal. 

sayén blinks. once. twice. then she giggles.

it's a soft sound, bright as scattered coins, and she brings her hand up to cover her mouth even as her dark eyes crinkle at the corners with genuine delight. her voice dances in her giggles even as she speaks.　“oh, you know.”　she waves a hand vaguely, the motion loose and graceful. as if this is the most natural question in the world, as if zil has just asked her opinion on the weather.  

“it’s just — well. you’re absorbed by the earth, and then trees hug underground, and everything is connected all at once. romantic, no?”　she nods, satisfied with this explanation, and reaches for a palm sized piece of crusty bread.　“zilv’ithra, have you ever died before?”　she asks then, chewing thoughtfully on the bread she just grabbed.　“not all the way, just a little bit.”　she adds, like the question needed any clarifying. 

she picks up a spoon, inspects her reflection on it while enjoying her bread. and while she does so, she asks unprovoked,　“can i watch your pulse? i like to watch it move.”

"that sounds less romantic and more peaceful," she says eventually before finally, finally closing her mouth around her spoon once more. old bitterness, borne from religious disillusionment, mixes with the mushroom taste of her soup and she frowns. her brief death had not been peaceful, had not been romantic. her life right after that even less so. "eternal sleep. if ones stupid god allows it anyway."

zil puts her spoon down and pushes the soup towards the tiny punk elf in a wordless offering. sayén's question catches zil off guard and has her sit up straighter, her frown deepening. was there a tell? a sign? a smell? or was this just another one of those weird things that sayén just says?