Reality slants. It folds. Angles assert themselves where none should exist. The air fractures into prismatic planes, oil-slick and reflective, their contours uncomfortably reminiscent of Ivory's form. An impossible sheen, like light bent through thought. It reminds her, absurdly, of water as it appears in the Cognitive Realm: familiar only by inversion. Wrong, disorienting...
—and yet, somehow, a relief.
This oddness is preferable to the strange, loud, relentless world she stumbled into moments ago.
Jasnah lifts her chin, spine straightening by instinct as the man approaches. He moves with purpose. With authority. Not military, exactly. No, something adjacent. A different grammar of power. She studies him with wary precision, cataloging what she can. The way reality itself seems to accommodate his presence. Invested, she decides. Or something uncomfortably close to it.
He speaks. The sounds mean nothing.
Her mouth tightens, irritation flaring sharp and immediate. Language failure, now? Of all times? She exhales through her nose and answers anyway, voice low, clipped, Alethi edged with frustration.
"Wait." It is, predictably, useless. Softer, almost involuntary, she repeats it to herself. "Wait..."
She rises from the bench. Slowly. Deliberately. Her left hand hangs at her side, covered and inert, a calculated non-threat. Her right hand lifts instead — palm forward, fingers spread.
She has seen Dalinar do this. A dozen times, at least. Touch, to initiate Connection. She has never needed to try it for herself before.
One step forward. Careful. Her gaze stays fixed on him. She would not blame him if he hesitates. She should terrify him. A woman who turned a structure into blood with a touch is not someone you want touching you in turn.
With visible reluctance, she raises her hidden left hand as well. She presses the covered hand against her open right palm. A buffer. A concession. Then she gestures again: palm to palm, then outward toward him. Once more, slower.
Touch, she thinks. Touch
Wherever she has landed, whatever storming corner of the Cosmere this is, she needs Connection. Needs to know if the rules still obey her. If she still obeys them.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2025-12-18 08:59 pm (UTC)Reality slants. It folds. Angles assert themselves where none should exist. The air fractures into prismatic planes, oil-slick and reflective, their contours uncomfortably reminiscent of Ivory's form. An impossible sheen, like light bent through thought. It reminds her, absurdly, of water as it appears in the Cognitive Realm: familiar only by inversion. Wrong, disorienting...
—and yet, somehow, a relief.
This oddness is preferable to the strange, loud, relentless world she stumbled into moments ago.
Jasnah lifts her chin, spine straightening by instinct as the man approaches. He moves with purpose. With authority. Not military, exactly. No, something adjacent. A different grammar of power. She studies him with wary precision, cataloging what she can. The way reality itself seems to accommodate his presence. Invested, she decides. Or something uncomfortably close to it.
He speaks. The sounds mean nothing.
Her mouth tightens, irritation flaring sharp and immediate. Language failure, now? Of all times? She exhales through her nose and answers anyway, voice low, clipped, Alethi edged with frustration.
"Wait." It is, predictably, useless. Softer, almost involuntary, she repeats it to herself. "Wait..."
She rises from the bench. Slowly. Deliberately. Her left hand hangs at her side, covered and inert, a calculated non-threat. Her right hand lifts instead — palm forward, fingers spread.
She has seen Dalinar do this. A dozen times, at least. Touch, to initiate Connection. She has never needed to try it for herself before.
One step forward. Careful. Her gaze stays fixed on him. She would not blame him if he hesitates. She should terrify him. A woman who turned a structure into blood with a touch is not someone you want touching you in turn.
With visible reluctance, she raises her hidden left hand as well. She presses the covered hand against her open right palm. A buffer. A concession. Then she gestures again: palm to palm, then outward toward him. Once more, slower.
Touch, she thinks. Touch
Wherever she has landed, whatever storming corner of the Cosmere this is, she needs Connection. Needs to know if the rules still obey her. If she still obeys them.