deer country: ic inbox.

[necrosaint]

harrow

text · action · overflow

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[unsheathedfromreality]

As a--sort of--living being, Iskierka gets a great deal more out of cuddles than her Sleeper. (Or so he'd say.) She's not shy at all about taking Stasya up on the offer, snuggling herself up in a tiny loaf of wingscale and feather at the larger Omen's side. Then she begins singing (quietly) her friend's praise in a continuous, contented gurgle. This is lovely!

"The Locked Tomb," Illarion echoes, rolling so portentous a name around his fangs. "And how came your House to this charge?"

He is, of course, also curious about what resides in the tomb, and why it must be locked, but that seems fraught to ask of someone whose House epithet revolves around secrets. The shrikes, too, have their veil of secrecy.

[necrosaint]

A good call, that, whether or not Harrow would offer anything up about the resident of the Tomb; it would be far, far less than she knew, either way. More likely that she would say nothing at all. She is already struggling not to look at the adorable going on underneath the table, as Stasya starts to softly lick a mothwing.

Social grooming would never be one of Harrowhark's skills, either.

"We were founded for it," she explains, instead of acknowledging the Omens. "Once there is a Tomb, there is a House to provide its guard. And so there has remained."

[unsheathedfromreality]

The Omens are being disgustingly adorable under the table. Illarion's not paying any more attention to it than Harrowhark is--in some small part, he'd admit (if forced to it) because he doesn't know what to make of Iskierka taking so much of her own initiative. It had long seemed like they'd only one soul and one attention span between them, and now... She's off preening Stasya without any direction from him.

A mystery for another time.

"What has such a charge made of your people? I have gathered you are admirably faithful, but I know little else of your customs or attitudes. Is the Ninth honored for your service?"