[ The earlobe-rubbing turns into a pinch when By is smug—correct, but smug—and Bastien doesn’t protest when he gets up. He turns his head to watch him, aching and nauseated and awfully fond. ]
No, nothing. [ He sits up against the headboard. ] There is elfroot— [ to chew, not to smoke, for stomach ailments and pains ] —in the drawer there, under the hat.
[ His accent turns all of those ths into dzs. So while Byerly’s not looking, he mouths the name to himself to make sure. Yseult’s taught him how to make a Marcher th sound natural again, instead of like he’s trying to spit his tongue out. So he can do it. One syllable. Simple. He’s not going to mispronounce his own damn name.
no subject
No, nothing. [ He sits up against the headboard. ] There is elfroot— [ to chew, not to smoke, for stomach ailments and pains ] —in the drawer there, under the hat.
[ His accent turns all of those ths into dzs. So while Byerly’s not looking, he mouths the name to himself to make sure. Yseult’s taught him how to make a Marcher th sound natural again, instead of like he’s trying to spit his tongue out. So he can do it. One syllable. Simple. He’s not going to mispronounce his own damn name.
It’s only a short pause. ]
Do you ever feel overdramatic, By?