This chapter was written in collaboration with Scylla.
Amon straightened in surprise at the familiar voice.
Could it really be…? And if so, why?
He probably should have been thinking more about his own well-being at that point, given the incident that led him to being where he was at the moment. But curiosity got the better of him.
Half-tangle in his blanket, and looking 100% bed head, the Elezen stumbled to the door. Slowly, he opened it, peering down, face half-shaded by the not-at-all-mysterious-looking sheet.
Scylla shoved the door forward, with the full intent of knocking him down. If she had been well, it might have come out that way, in her weakened state, it barely shoved open enough for her to wedge her way in, tapping the Elezen in the head.
The room was poorly lit, and the single porthole on the side had been covered up by hung linen. Casks of oil and sacks of various goods lay stacked and strapped on wooden shelves, with only a makeshift bed and scattered mast-patched blankets and scraps scattered about.
The white mage shook her head in frustration, hiding the pain she felt as she hobbled over to the corner.
“What an absolute sty!”
Half-eaten dishes were piled in the corner, and the room carried a stale, musty odor of being left sealed. His appearance was at best disheveled, far removed from the manicured velvet coated Allagan master who once shadowed over all. It was a mess by any standards, but she had known the technologist to get into fits of closed-off fits of anger and madness, especially when he had hyper-dosed on his aethercocktails.
I hope he didn’t find anything -interesting- in the lab while I was out… Last thing I need is for Amon to be in an aether-drugged state.
It was when he was when he was in his little aether-blissed moments… that he could be at his most dangerous.
Everyone in the Tower knew of this.
Scylla looked around for a few moments, trying to hide the splinted fractured ankle by judiciously leaning on her staff. Scarlet eyes stared straight into Amon’s face, giving sign of nothing but contempt.
“What act are you trying to pull now, Amon?” The woman dug her fingernails into the length of her staff, voice rising. “What falsity or woven tale do you have to draw from now to get out of this?”
Amon watched as Scylla proceeded into his room with all the air of her royal heritage. Her nose turned up slightly, in that way he remembered, when she was judging something she considered far below her. Her verbal dismissal of the state of his room coincided with the disgust on her face.
Some things never changed. Next thing she’d do was remark something about his ears. Surprisingly, that hadn’t already happened.
Amon just pursed his lips, gave an anxious look over his shoulder and pushed the door to. Scylla probably wouldn’t like him closing it, but if she wanted it differently, she knew how to find the exit.
“Act? There is no act.” The Elezen spread his hands, taking note of the way she favored one foot as she limped. “Would it do me any good to try to explain? You’ll not believe a word I say, anyhow. So why did you go through all this pain to come here?”