Moonspear mhysa

His grasp of words, his charm, it all seemed to fail him the moment the words left him. He saw the flash of emotion that crossed her features, the subtle shift in her body language that suggested he had struck a nerve. It baffled him initially that something was lost in their communique, but it was fair from out of the norm. By now these shifts were hardly stinging to him beyond a moment, and the narrowing of his eyes expressed more than the words he could not find would.

He fell in step behind her, dismissing the notion that perhaps she had seen through his ruse. If even a moment of doubt imbued her, she would have set teeth to him as she had bared for others. There would be no hesitation, not now, not ever.

”I am thinking of them,” came his counterpoint, ”I think of them by looking after you, don't I? The mornings you've spent feeling ill have come and gone, I presumed that was a good thing and nothing more.” Perhaps she had enjoyed groaning and the churn of an ill-tempered meal for what it implied, but she didn't need any more implications about her state.

His gait picked up, and he reached to nudge her hip gently.

”Tell me about them,” he continued. ”What do you know of them already?” Could mothers do such a thing? He had never thought to ask, nor had he the opportunity. The shift of her temperament had cast off the cloak of uncertainty and he sought to rectify it as quick as he could muster, that perhaps he could resume his own selfish worries later.