[On arrival Prior's been set upon by medics, sensing weakness (possibly in the fact that by the time they reached sanctuary he was at least half dead from cold). Recovery has been surprisingly quick, given the quirks of this city's technology, but he's still curled in a chair with steam from something hot and alcoholic curling between his hands, and a couple of warm blankets swathing him until he's barely visible below the nose.
There's enough of his face visible, however, that he can be seen giving Fergus an appraising look at overhearing (did he overhear it?) that little comment.
The blankets don't hide the little smile as he responds, either.]
Ah, beau monsieur, avec un visage comme ça ils vont former une file d'attente.
i.
There's enough of his face visible, however, that he can be seen giving Fergus an appraising look at overhearing (did he overhear it?) that little comment.
The blankets don't hide the little smile as he responds, either.]
Ah, beau monsieur, avec un visage comme ça ils vont former une file d'attente.