>>5903774>>5903765You immediately pick up on the microexpression of guilt and pity which flits across Mithel’s features. It sobers you up—at least a little—and you leap upon it like a predator upon prey.
“Is everything okay?” you ask. “They haven’t decided to… don’t know, flood the place of fire a radiant death-ray at Hawksong from the moon or something, have they?”
“Luna has no such capabilities,” he assures you, “and Sol would never be fired upon innocent mortals, for multiple reason ranging from moral to practical.”
You stare blankly for a moment, and then feel dawning horror rise in you.
“Wait,” you say, “WHAT? The sun is a… The sun can… WHAT?!”
Mithel glances past you at the attention your loud voice has attracted. He raises a finger to his lips, shushing you. He also clearly sees how distraught you are, and how concerned, and takes your hand in his to guide you away from the party for a moment. As when you first men this elfman, you’re struck by how touchy-feely these eladrin are, but by now you’re more used to it, even if you’re not as comfortable with it from him as from your close companions. Right now, though, it is a means to an end and you do not protest being led to somewhere quieter and more private, just inside the Scholae proper.
“You didn’t say anything about a flood,” you note, when you are alone. “PLEASE tell me the gods aren’t going to FLOOD THE EARTH.”
“The gods aren’t going to flood the earth,” Mithel promises you, leading you to lean against a wall.
(There are, as you’ve come to notice, surprisingly few seats upon the moon, for the low gravity and youthful bodies of everyone here means there is little need to rest weary joints.)
“Then what?” you demand. “Please, Mithel, what’s going on? What have they decided?”
>19 for Sociability/Sense MotiveMithel purses his lips and looks this was and that, as if checking to make sure you are really alone.
“I’m not supposed to speak of it to those who are not given divine dispensation,” he says.
You meet his eyes with your most pleading expression. You may have developed a little more traditional human masculinity about your face and shoulders since you last deployed this technique against Logan Pearce, but your half-elven good looks are still nothing to slouch at, nor your capacity to look forlorn and pathetic when you wan to.
“They will be permitting the Era of High Magic to develop in its own time, without direct interference or suppression efforts,” Mithel intimates to you.
“Good,” you say, then narrow your eyes. “Too good. What’s the catch, then?”