It's subtle, but there's a wince. He knows how frustrating it must be to have two people with the same name running around under the same roof, but nicknames just seemed strange, and there were only so many ways his name could be mauled into some other, shorter version. "No. The trap lines were yesterday."
And some other small things, like getting his claws re-filed down to a comfortable smoothness instead of razor sharp points. Gaia was emphatically not a friend, but she was his age, and understood more than he'd have expected an offworlder to about some things. In any other situation, he could acknowledge she probably would make a decent friend, by what conclusions he could draw from remembering how his team acted together. "There is ... something I require assistance with." Asking for help directly wasn't especially common, and usually ended with comparatively minor things. Like entire bags of sugar being needed for candy making efforts.
But this isn't about something so easy. Not this time. Not with the dull ache beginning to gradually sharpen back to distractingly unpleasant. "I can no longer manage adequate rest, or wearing shirts or jackets comfortably." Sure, he's wearing one right now, and a pair of stolen belts. Sure, he might be understating how it feels by a fair bit, but that's what the faerie drinks were for, and right now it was merely unpleasant and thus under rigid control, stifled to countless tiny signs of stress. Earlier was the breathtaking agony that made staying still that much harder, and every twitch made it so much worse, when all he could do was lie there in rigid silence and wait for the compulsion to move to pass.
There's a deep and profound unease with knowing that scales and claws he could reasonably hide. But wings? "I think my ... my scales may be too thick to rupture from the inside." The skinning knife is held out, hand almost steady. If those things emerged, he'd never be able to pretend to be human again. He could move them as easily as moving a finger, feel the sickening pressure of his own skin keeping them wrapped, feel the sting of tissue tearing and trying to re-heal back into place as every twitch pulled it free. The straps kept the worst of the impulse to move still. "I can likely manage with my sword but there's a reasonable chance I'll make a mistake."
He didn't like knives anywhere near his skin. Allowing even the tiny ones Gaia used to keep nails short and smooth was a struggle, and the idea of deliberately asking anyone to take such a thing to him dredged up the prickles of fear and sickening dread.
no subject
And some other small things, like getting his claws re-filed down to a comfortable smoothness instead of razor sharp points. Gaia was emphatically not a friend, but she was his age, and understood more than he'd have expected an offworlder to about some things. In any other situation, he could acknowledge she probably would make a decent friend, by what conclusions he could draw from remembering how his team acted together. "There is ... something I require assistance with." Asking for help directly wasn't especially common, and usually ended with comparatively minor things. Like entire bags of sugar being needed for candy making efforts.
But this isn't about something so easy. Not this time. Not with the dull ache beginning to gradually sharpen back to distractingly unpleasant. "I can no longer manage adequate rest, or wearing shirts or jackets comfortably." Sure, he's wearing one right now, and a pair of stolen belts. Sure, he might be understating how it feels by a fair bit, but that's what the faerie drinks were for, and right now it was merely unpleasant and thus under rigid control, stifled to countless tiny signs of stress. Earlier was the breathtaking agony that made staying still that much harder, and every twitch made it so much worse, when all he could do was lie there in rigid silence and wait for the compulsion to move to pass.
There's a deep and profound unease with knowing that scales and claws he could reasonably hide. But wings? "I think my ... my scales may be too thick to rupture from the inside." The skinning knife is held out, hand almost steady. If those things emerged, he'd never be able to pretend to be human again. He could move them as easily as moving a finger, feel the sickening pressure of his own skin keeping them wrapped, feel the sting of tissue tearing and trying to re-heal back into place as every twitch pulled it free. The straps kept the worst of the impulse to move still. "I can likely manage with my sword but there's a reasonable chance I'll make a mistake."
He didn't like knives anywhere near his skin. Allowing even the tiny ones Gaia used to keep nails short and smooth was a struggle, and the idea of deliberately asking anyone to take such a thing to him dredged up the prickles of fear and sickening dread.