He scowls after her, but-- Starting a fight is pointless, and wherever she's leading him, it... doesn't really matter. It stopped mattering the moment he trusted her against his instincts.
He'll deal with it when they get there.
That doesn't mean he has to like her or whatever she's doing. He follows her in icy silence. It's better this way anyway; familiar, almost comfortingly so. This unsteady ground is what he's used to.
The passage widens. The light at the end is a magical torch, which the woman fiddles with...
on the other side of the wall
A sinister croaking and a few struggling knocks interrupt all conversation. A recessed panel beside the fireplace sinks back, then swings open, admitting a blast of dank air and a number of bodies: one a dark woman all in black, and the other a suspiciously ordinary-looking Chinese man.
Joffrey rises, calm, with a pleased smile dancing upon his face. "You found him. Well done, Varrå." The sound at the end is curved strangely, the sort of thing that takes years of practice to master.
"Teedle dee dee deeree o what." She replies, or at least that's what it sounds like. This seems to satisfy Joffrey yet further. He holds out open arms in greeting to the newcomer(s).
"Just in time!"
(In the background, the woman arranges herself in a chair across from Shonagon and Bones (her footsteps make no sound.) She's absolutely casual, sprawling out and sinking low in the padded chair, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee. Watching.
Bored within seconds, she pulls out something that looks like a copper marble and starts fiddling with it. In her hands it ignores gravity and rolls freely in midair, harmlessly emitting glittery puffs of smoke.)
The light blinds his unaccustomed eyes for a moment, and he squints -- and then instinctively tenses at Joffrey's voice. For a moment, his dark eyes bore themselves into the black-clad woman's back, and there is a promise there.
Then his face relaxes into careful neutrality, even though his shoulders are still tense. He glances at Joffrey, at the woman in the elaborate clothing, the man in grey -- they seem unharmed, but that means nothing -- and then the woman in black with her marble.
Two wizards, then; one of them swift and armed even discounting whatever powers she may have. He ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach, and returns his gaze to Joffrey.
"In time for what?" he asks, because it seems to be the sort of thing that ought to follow.
"Your compatriot," Joffrey replies, gesturing at Shonagon. "Was making an interesting proposal. You have worked together for a long time, have you not?"
From her seat, Varrå smiles for no visible reason. Her smooth lips are the color of dark berries.
Shonagon's eyes skip across the other Outlander; he looks a bit worse for the wear since he ran from the throne room. But she's very interested in his captor, and her toy. She doesn't bother to try to be subtle as she watches the marble roll through the air. They have their own court wizards in Japan, but she's never seen that trick before.
At the least touch, the marble disintegrates into a fine, shining poof of dust. Varrå smiles the way that mean children smile when they've taken a toy away from someone.
The wafts of smoke have no particular odor other than "generalized combustion."
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He'll deal with it when they get there.
That doesn't mean he has to like her or whatever she's doing. He follows her in icy silence. It's better this way anyway; familiar, almost comfortingly so. This unsteady ground is what he's used to.
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on the other side of the wall
A sinister croaking and a few struggling knocks interrupt all conversation. A recessed panel beside the fireplace sinks back, then swings open, admitting a blast of dank air and a number of bodies: one a dark woman all in black, and the other a suspiciously ordinary-looking Chinese man.
Joffrey rises, calm, with a pleased smile dancing upon his face. "You found him. Well done, Varrå." The sound at the end is curved strangely, the sort of thing that takes years of practice to master.
"Teedle dee dee deeree o what." She replies, or at least that's what it sounds like. This seems to satisfy Joffrey yet further. He holds out open arms in greeting to the newcomer(s).
"Just in time!"
(In the background, the woman arranges herself in a chair across from Shonagon and Bones (her footsteps make no sound.) She's absolutely casual, sprawling out and sinking low in the padded chair, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee. Watching.
Bored within seconds, she pulls out something that looks like a copper marble and starts fiddling with it. In her hands it ignores gravity and rolls freely in midair, harmlessly emitting glittery puffs of smoke.)
(Free for all.)
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Then his face relaxes into careful neutrality, even though his shoulders are still tense. He glances at Joffrey, at the woman in the elaborate clothing, the man in grey -- they seem unharmed, but that means nothing -- and then the woman in black with her marble.
Two wizards, then; one of them swift and armed even discounting whatever powers she may have. He ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach, and returns his gaze to Joffrey.
"In time for what?" he asks, because it seems to be the sort of thing that ought to follow.
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From her seat, Varrå smiles for no visible reason. Her smooth lips are the color of dark berries.
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He's saved from having to find an answer by the entrance from the library.
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The marble glides over in Shonagon's direction, still smoking.
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"What a charming little thing!"
She's very careful not to breathe the smoke in directly, but a flick of her fan wafts the smoke toward her so that she can better process the scent.
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The wafts of smoke have no particular odor other than "generalized combustion."
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"What do you use these for?" she asks. "If I may be so forward. Are they meant as toys?"