"Here's hoping I learned this right, I usually do it the other direction."
A sigil of sprinkled corn meal, all around River's body. She clutches the obsidian chip in her hand until her palm bleeds, letting the drops hit the corn while she waves the wand over herself. Her native tongue should, by now, be somewhat familiar to Erik in its cadence - he's heard her swear in it, talk in it, sing in it, and, yes, moan with bliss in it - but with every word it's like a layer strips away from the light in the room, gathering something that is not quite shadow around the necromancer.
Her newly phantasmal lover feels it first as a gentle tug, then an inexorable one, drawing him rapidly into River's body. At first the sensations of life are muted, distant, as if observed secondhand; River herself, the heart and soul of her, eclipses the living world from his perspective not unlike how a tiny moon might eclipse the massive sun.
And then she just gets out of the way, retreating into some part of herself, and Erik Osborne is in control of a living body. Her living body, with all that implies, starting with the 'her' bit, and continuing into a myriad of subtle differences. The warmth of the sigils on her arms heats her blood into something that would be feverish if she wasn't a diabolist. Her hearing isn't much sharper than a human's, but her ears are attuned to the slightest changes in air pressure and wind direction, and the sense of balance in her body is incredible.
...And her body is tired, and a little sore, and doesn't want to be awake this fucking early. The scent of that coffee is known to these bones. They crave it.
I'll not lie to you, River says in their shared mind. If you don't grope me at least once I'm going to be very let down.
no subject
A sigil of sprinkled corn meal, all around River's body. She clutches the obsidian chip in her hand until her palm bleeds, letting the drops hit the corn while she waves the wand over herself. Her native tongue should, by now, be somewhat familiar to Erik in its cadence - he's heard her swear in it, talk in it, sing in it, and, yes, moan with bliss in it - but with every word it's like a layer strips away from the light in the room, gathering something that is not quite shadow around the necromancer.
Her newly phantasmal lover feels it first as a gentle tug, then an inexorable one, drawing him rapidly into River's body. At first the sensations of life are muted, distant, as if observed secondhand; River herself, the heart and soul of her, eclipses the living world from his perspective not unlike how a tiny moon might eclipse the massive sun.
And then she just gets out of the way, retreating into some part of herself, and Erik Osborne is in control of a living body. Her living body, with all that implies, starting with the 'her' bit, and continuing into a myriad of subtle differences. The warmth of the sigils on her arms heats her blood into something that would be feverish if she wasn't a diabolist. Her hearing isn't much sharper than a human's, but her ears are attuned to the slightest changes in air pressure and wind direction, and the sense of balance in her body is incredible.
...And her body is tired, and a little sore, and doesn't want to be awake this fucking early. The scent of that coffee is known to these bones. They crave it.
I'll not lie to you, River says in their shared mind. If you don't grope me at least once I'm going to be very let down.