It's a response on Elidibus' part that receives an exhalation that contains a whisper of amusement. "A familiar use of resources, isn't it?" Whatever will this star had, whatever hand was guiding it- if indeed, there was any- certainly put their efforts in a strange, even wasteful direction. The energy bringing them here, denying them their true powers, changing them- it had to come from somewhere, it couldn't be free. Nothing was limitless, not even a god (and they would know, having created one). And yet, they were all made to 'fit in', for whatever purpose, to whatever end.
Not that it mattered, except as an abstract consideration. There was nothing they could do for it but live with it, made to adapt.
Grooming continues, as does the Emissary's form of disapproval at hearing anything there was to say about this recent demise. That there had been madness involved in how their deaths had unfolded... Emet-Selch would have a hard time denying it. But he offers no more in the way of either explanation or defense, only gazing quietly, tiredly back.
But finally there came a time of movement, something practical to think on rather than everything that had led to this particular situation. And so long as he remained in contact with his Bonded, his needs were- if not satisfied, indulged enough that there was little quarrel that Emet-Selch could make. It was perhaps a weakness to show this requirement at all, but- it was met and overmatched by the Ascian's lack of self-consciousness, and a perhaps overly developed amount of confidence; if Emet-Selch wanted to remain in contact with his fiancé, then he was not going to be shy about demonstrating it.
Apart from keeping an eye on proceedings, there's no protest on his part when Mettaton is collected off his side of the bed, and led to his duly-assigned seating. There's not quite a robot-shaped outline of flecks of blood and loose hairs where he had just been... but it's obvious that something unclean had been resting in that spot. Not that the Ascian's spot is likely to be much better, considering how closely they'd been resting.
Hand retaken, Emet-Selch squeezes it, if not terribly hard. "If only you were able to shift to your hare form, all this tiresome maneuvering would've been avoidable." A rabbit could've tucked himself into any number of places around him or on him, and just by virtue of being smaller, any mess he left behind would've been automatically less. But the magic for any of that had hardly had a chance to return; even their physical bodies could barely move as it was.
Emet-Selch couldn't say he looked forward to being shuffled off the bed himself- but then, he didn't particularly look forward to much of anything. Clean selves and clean sheets though... he supposed there was that. He would hold onto that most modest of hopes for the future.
no subject
Not that it mattered, except as an abstract consideration. There was nothing they could do for it but live with it, made to adapt.
Grooming continues, as does the Emissary's form of disapproval at hearing anything there was to say about this recent demise. That there had been madness involved in how their deaths had unfolded... Emet-Selch would have a hard time denying it. But he offers no more in the way of either explanation or defense, only gazing quietly, tiredly back.
But finally there came a time of movement, something practical to think on rather than everything that had led to this particular situation. And so long as he remained in contact with his Bonded, his needs were- if not satisfied, indulged enough that there was little quarrel that Emet-Selch could make. It was perhaps a weakness to show this requirement at all, but- it was met and overmatched by the Ascian's lack of self-consciousness, and a perhaps overly developed amount of confidence; if Emet-Selch wanted to remain in contact with his fiancé, then he was not going to be shy about demonstrating it.
Apart from keeping an eye on proceedings, there's no protest on his part when Mettaton is collected off his side of the bed, and led to his duly-assigned seating. There's not quite a robot-shaped outline of flecks of blood and loose hairs where he had just been... but it's obvious that something unclean had been resting in that spot. Not that the Ascian's spot is likely to be much better, considering how closely they'd been resting.
Hand retaken, Emet-Selch squeezes it, if not terribly hard. "If only you were able to shift to your hare form, all this tiresome maneuvering would've been avoidable." A rabbit could've tucked himself into any number of places around him or on him, and just by virtue of being smaller, any mess he left behind would've been automatically less. But the magic for any of that had hardly had a chance to return; even their physical bodies could barely move as it was.
Emet-Selch couldn't say he looked forward to being shuffled off the bed himself- but then, he didn't particularly look forward to much of anything. Clean selves and clean sheets though... he supposed there was that. He would hold onto that most modest of hopes for the future.