[ As Koby reaches out with invisible fingers, what greets him is almost less an aura than it is a concentrated force — a jewel, what ought to be soft made solid and hard. The kind of blue that can be described as beautiful and cold at the same time, shot through with the sense of a wound scabbed over (or that never healed, like the orange eye set in scar tissue, unusually raw in comparison to the rest of him). It's an incursion that Silco can't sense, for better or worse — he sifts through the notes in front of him, none the wiser.
Still, the light tap of Koby's fingers is enough to get Silco to look up, his gaze — sharp, always sharp, no matter how he modulates the rest of his expression — meeting the young man's in an instant. ]
This is impressive work, Koby.
[ Another little sliver of praise, doled out in the only way Silco ever gives it — matter-of-fact, meant to be more significant for the fact that he never gives it idly. But it's as much an isolated thing as it is a treat, a sweet thing meant to cushion and soften the question he asks next, slow and light at the same time: ]
no subject
Still, the light tap of Koby's fingers is enough to get Silco to look up, his gaze — sharp, always sharp, no matter how he modulates the rest of his expression — meeting the young man's in an instant. ]
This is impressive work, Koby.
[ Another little sliver of praise, doled out in the only way Silco ever gives it — matter-of-fact, meant to be more significant for the fact that he never gives it idly. But it's as much an isolated thing as it is a treat, a sweet thing meant to cushion and soften the question he asks next, slow and light at the same time: ]
Who are you afraid might find this?