As alien as the magic itself is to her, the aftereffect is the same: ozone and burning. Is it more or less dangerous than the lightening Derrica can bring down and bend to her will?
She observes it without any sign of fear, even with the understanding that this is not such an easily controlled sort of summoning. (The tremble in his hand does not go unnoticed.) There is a considering pause, and then Derrica folds her hands over his. Her expression is searching, even as her fingers brush over his palms, making the same inspection before lacing their fingers together.
"Are you afraid of it?" is asked so gently. It would be a fair thing, if he were. She remembers the mages who came to Dairsmuid from southern circles, how they had sometimes flinched at what they could conjure. Worse than it is puts her in mind of that, sparks up the urge to draw in closer to him.
Loxley's fingers curl into hers when she laces them together. Skin no warmer or colder or anything-er than it was before his little demonstration.
His expression flickers a little, but isn't some confession kept suppressed, but a hint of surprise. Like afraid hits strangely. Rather than an easy of course not, because clearly he is afraid of nothing, Loxley quiets and thinks, pulling apart the threads of his own conflicted feelings on this topic, inspecting them with care, before he says,
"At first," seems fair. "But even if I don't know where it comes from, it's never acted beyond my control. It feels like mine, either way."
His eyeline had vagued, somewhere in there, but sharpens now, studies Derrica across from him. He starts to say something, then seems to think again, and says, "You like your magic."
An answer offered up without hesitation or complication. She drops her gaze to admire their hands, the way they look together, as she sets her answer against his.
"It's always been part of me. I wouldn't be myself without it."
And that's not quite true for him. Derrica knows where her magic comes from. She's never known herself without it. There are parts of Loxley's magic that are new to him. They exist separately from him, weapon rather than something intrinsic, knitted into his body.
"What were you going to say?" she prompts, looking back up to his face.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charmoffensive) wrote2019-10-19 02:48 pm
no subject
She observes it without any sign of fear, even with the understanding that this is not such an easily controlled sort of summoning. (The tremble in his hand does not go unnoticed.) There is a considering pause, and then Derrica folds her hands over his. Her expression is searching, even as her fingers brush over his palms, making the same inspection before lacing their fingers together.
"Are you afraid of it?" is asked so gently. It would be a fair thing, if he were. She remembers the mages who came to Dairsmuid from southern circles, how they had sometimes flinched at what they could conjure. Worse than it is puts her in mind of that, sparks up the urge to draw in closer to him.
no subject
His expression flickers a little, but isn't some confession kept suppressed, but a hint of surprise. Like afraid hits strangely. Rather than an easy of course not, because clearly he is afraid of nothing, Loxley quiets and thinks, pulling apart the threads of his own conflicted feelings on this topic, inspecting them with care, before he says,
"At first," seems fair. "But even if I don't know where it comes from, it's never acted beyond my control. It feels like mine, either way."
His eyeline had vagued, somewhere in there, but sharpens now, studies Derrica across from him. He starts to say something, then seems to think again, and says, "You like your magic."
no subject
An answer offered up without hesitation or complication. She drops her gaze to admire their hands, the way they look together, as she sets her answer against his.
"It's always been part of me. I wouldn't be myself without it."
And that's not quite true for him. Derrica knows where her magic comes from. She's never known herself without it. There are parts of Loxley's magic that are new to him. They exist separately from him, weapon rather than something intrinsic, knitted into his body.
"What were you going to say?" she prompts, looking back up to his face.