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They were stretched comfortably along the bed, nestled in the room of a tavern in Reaper’s Coast. Well, Silvia was, at the very least: head pillowed in the many folds of Fane’s robe, right across where his stomach would be (were he not, in most instances, a walking heap of bones, of course); laying perpendicular to the way most people would, in a bed most of all.
Fane, not without some smugness, is propped most normally against the headboard, carefully revisiting some of his notes. Sometimes retracing with a pencil the writing where the water from the crash to Fort Joy had smudged it.
They had slept together before, aboard the Lady Vengeance, and though it was far from a stellar encounter, it had dispersed most of the otherwise awkward air of sleeping in the same room, in the same bed. A blessing, all in all, since rooms were hard to come by, what with the influx of refugees in town, all looking for a place to rest.
Silvia, for her part, seemed appeased by the illusionary softness of his body. Though it did not simulate the warmth true skin would have, it did not seem to bother her, and Fane was equally content in their arrangement that he declined to bring it up.
“It’s really realistic,” she piped up, rather suddenly. Almost as abruptly, she pivoted to lay on her side, eyes trailing over the cover of his notebook. A hand also raised to trace circles over his chest; the movement that led him to understand she meant the body.
“Thankfully, I’d say. I am partial to not being chased with torches by--” Fane stopped.
Lately, he had resolved to study tact, uprooting rudeness. Which, while admirable, now put him in the predicament of having to find a flattering synonym for primitives; with little luck in the endeavour.
“Savages?” Silvia offered.
And while that, indeed, was a synonym, it could not be described as flattering by any stretch of the word. After a moment he settled for mortals, for which he was rewarded with a smile after he vocalised said decision.
Yes, perhaps tact had its advantages.
“I imagine you cannot feel this then,” Silvia said as she traced with a finger Fane’s collarbone, carving a path along the linf-swollen raised vessels that jutted out.
“No,” was his only answer, which seemed to vaguely vex her. Not too deeply, Fane imagined, their tryst aboard the Lady Vengeance had already brought this issue to light. What was not expected was his own rising surge of disappointment, enough to probably dwarf Silvia’s.
It was easier to justify it as a loss of a potential learning experience, and so he did. Fane had, after all, chosen this particular face to match hers; albeit, as it often happened with these creatures, it matched in the sense that they both were wearing rather elfin features, it still was not the same.
“Does it still bother you?”
“No,” Fane lied, though he could not tell at whose behest this was.