[It's a weary groan, overly deflated, that seeps from the back of his throat as his palm is made wet— thank you, daughter— though it's all fond resignation up front; he'd be yowling like a barnhouse cat for anything less than having truly missed the creature shoved against him now with all her hip-high weight, imagining for so long he'd never see her again.
Through the veil though, Leto says. As if it was nothing.
(All the leviathan gravity of that assertion just impossible to take in all at once; he can't begin to pick apart what it might mean for them— for her— for everything, least of all whether or not there's a way to go back. So if his thoughts shutter to it in favor of fixing on the handsome thing across the room from him scrubbing softly at the little furball in his arms (the bulk of fuzzy muscle propped against his own side sporting adoration), it's only natural progression at this point.
He's had enough of world-shattering revelations.)]
If it was that easy....I'm shocked she didn't come back before now. [Said as his damp palm passes over the top of Ataashi's head, both wiping it off and passing assurance back onto her form through pets too heavy-handed to be anything but deeply doting.
And then, with a snort of his own to that final comment:]
We're going to need a less reputable set of professions.
[A beat— oh it's not even a joke he wants to make, but it's there, it's right there and it's too perfect and too easy, and really, when have they ever shied from laughing at their own ordeals?]
....or one more dead Master.
Give or take.
[And Fortunato, coward that she is, is on the move.
Ohhh she's ambling on those pudgy legs, terrified but jealous of the love Montressor is getting. Prowling for the corner of Leto's left foot to huddle up against it.
no subject
[It's a weary groan, overly deflated, that seeps from the back of his throat as his palm is made wet— thank you, daughter— though it's all fond resignation up front; he'd be yowling like a barnhouse cat for anything less than having truly missed the creature shoved against him now with all her hip-high weight, imagining for so long he'd never see her again.
Through the veil though, Leto says. As if it was nothing.
(All the leviathan gravity of that assertion just impossible to take in all at once; he can't begin to pick apart what it might mean for them— for her— for everything, least of all whether or not there's a way to go back. So if his thoughts shutter to it in favor of fixing on the handsome thing across the room from him scrubbing softly at the little furball in his arms (the bulk of fuzzy muscle propped against his own side sporting adoration), it's only natural progression at this point.
He's had enough of world-shattering revelations.)]
If it was that easy....I'm shocked she didn't come back before now. [Said as his damp palm passes over the top of Ataashi's head, both wiping it off and passing assurance back onto her form through pets too heavy-handed to be anything but deeply doting.
And then, with a snort of his own to that final comment:]
We're going to need a less reputable set of professions.
[A beat— oh it's not even a joke he wants to make, but it's there, it's right there and it's too perfect and too easy, and really, when have they ever shied from laughing at their own ordeals?]
....or one more dead Master.
Give or take.
[And Fortunato, coward that she is, is on the move.
Ohhh she's ambling on those pudgy legs, terrified but jealous of the love Montressor is getting. Prowling for the corner of Leto's left foot to huddle up against it.
Hello, she is scared, too. :C]