In some things, she's infinitely self aware. This isn't one of them. Shepard knows a thing or two about responsibility, about things being foisted onto shoulders that aren't necessarily unwilling but certainly not entirely prepared for what that duty might bring. Under better circumstances, she might chance giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Unfortunately, they're naked in a ship with a track record for killing people so the string of titles gets a raised eyebrow and a marginally derisive sidelong glance as they file their through to the communal showers. "That's right." And since they're sharing personal information: "I enlisted when I was eighteen."
It seems, the longer this conversation continued, the less patience she has for his attempts at small talk. Lysander is effectively distracted at the sight of the showers, a vast room with devices sprinkling water, nothing like the novelty of the things he was familiar with. "Right," he says, and finds an empty stream of water, hot against skin chilled by stale air, soon pink and free of the bluish goop, the plush towel wrapped around his waist as he glances once more at his arm. There are others moving purposefully towards lockers that lay beyond the shower area, and others more like himself, looking a little lost and bewildered at this whole ordeal. Gathering himself up, Lysander strides into the hallway, eyes skipping along the numbers of lockers. 123. The door opens without difficulty, and within he finds the uniform that others seem to be donning, and beneath it, some of his own possessions.
He scowls at the sight of the elaborate jewelry that encompassed the hearthstone he is so used to wearing for ceremonial purposes, and tosses it back in with disgust, opting instead to merely pull on the uniform, towel draped over his head to rub at damp hair once he's fastened the pants. What good is the Heart of the Realm when he has been, by all accounts, and if Shepard is to be believed, far removed from anywhere that would make the thing even usable? He is, however, glad to see his shortbow, finely crafted and as well cared for as he had last left it, along with a quiver of arrows, fletched with golden eagle feathers. These he leaves, picking up the small, squarish device propped up against the side of the locker, quite out of place among the relics of Creation, and squints at the thing with a scowl, twisting it around.
She's unfortunately not much for small talk and doesn't make any attempt to keep track of him as she makes her way through the showers, through med bay and the trip to her own locker. They're in entirely different rows anyway and he's an adult on top of everything else. There's only so much babysitting she feels obligated to do, especially when she might find herself with nothing in her locker again.
Luckily that's not the case. The usual mix of clothes is there, her communicator. Still no weapons, no personal affects beyond what she's accumulated here on the ship, but at this point she doesn't expect it. She doesn't know if it's something wrong with her, something wrong with the locker or just the ship being a bastard, but it is what it is. So Shepard dons her underwear, a plain grey shirt and the ship's jump suit. She doesn't bother with pulling the sleeves on, instead tying them off at her middle before she shuts the locker and moves toward the lifts.
It's on her way that she runs back into him as he's fussing with the comm device. She knocks him on the back of the shoulder as she nearly, moving past him without slowing much. "This way, Emperor."
The clap on his shoulder shocks him out of his contemplation of the strange device, but he is hesitant to commit Essence to anything he doesn't know how it works first. Or something that is useless to him here, wherever 'here' happens to be. He casts one last glance to the Heart of the Realm, and closes the locker, trailing after Shepard, still scowling down at the thing in his hands.
"How does this thing work?" He holds up the comm device, a brow raised, his hair regaining its normal spring, naturally falling in that way around his face that is artfully unkempt, the silver streaks near his temples more evident against the nearly black of damp hair. "Do I need to commit Essence to it?" And for the first time, his confidence falters. He has no idea what he's doing here, or why, or who anyone is. Lysander generally prides himself on his ability to roll with the punches, but it's one thing to go in fully armed and on the defensive, and quite another to wake up nude and covered in goo in a strange place surrounded by strange people.
If he'd heard the phrase from Shepard's mouth a few minutes prior, he'd certainly use 'existential crisis' to describe the floundering sensation that suddenly overcomes him.
Well. That's a new one. Shepard slows her pace considerably, actually turning the angle of her shoulders to actually look at him as she continues drifting in her previously established trajectory toward the lift.
"What? No, you just press the buttons." There's a pause as the question she wants to ask fights its way up. She frowns very briefly, then-- "What's 'Essence?'"
The slowed pace makes him glance up, a brow raising as she looked in confusion at his face. "Essence is..." His lips thin, brows creasing again as he glances down at the thing in his hands. "Well. It's a form of energy... It powers machinery, but it also allows the use of sorcery and charms. It's a life force, what allows Creation to exist... I could demonstrate but I think it would be best if I didn't, since I'm not sure I would be able to regain mine out of Creation, if that's where we are."
A hand runs through shaggy dark strands, golden eyes shifting down to the comm unit again. "I'm not as eloquent as Eryon about all this shit. He's a sorcerer, studies the stuff for a living. I tend to tune him out most of the time, too much technical babble..." It's strange to think of someone not knowing what Essence is, and trying to describe the very thing that powers and gives life to the world you live in, as well as all its applications is a lot harder than it seems.
Most of that explanation - sorcerers and the like - she dumps by the proverbial wayside. But energy she understands. It almost sounds like a concentrated brand of eezo and that much is familiar that once she has something to compare it to, it becomes a non-issue. Shepard's not really one to get too into the logistics of science beyond what's required of her on the field, so the explanation satisfies.
"Here--" She reaches out, abruptly taking the comm from him. She powers it up with a touch, tipping the screen to him so he can follow along as she navigates through the minimal menu systems. "This is your connection to the ship's comm net. You'll get alerts, messages to sort through - that kind of thing. There's also some local files you should probably read like Ianto's guide to the ship."
Bright eyes narrow, memorizing the motions, watching the swift, easy movements of Shepard's fingers across the screen. "I see..." Well, he didn't really understand, but he would figure it out. "And Ianto... Another passenger?" He gestures vaguely at the ship, and reaches out, indicating he's ready for the comm unit again. "Or prisoner." The wry lightness disappears from his voice, and a flash of something new is visible momentarily in his eyes. "I assume, given the lack of information you've offered about this place, you don't know much more than I do?" Which was almost nothing, really.
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Unfortunately, they're naked in a ship with a track record for killing people so the string of titles gets a raised eyebrow and a marginally derisive sidelong glance as they file their through to the communal showers. "That's right." And since they're sharing personal information: "I enlisted when I was eighteen."
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He scowls at the sight of the elaborate jewelry that encompassed the hearthstone he is so used to wearing for ceremonial purposes, and tosses it back in with disgust, opting instead to merely pull on the uniform, towel draped over his head to rub at damp hair once he's fastened the pants. What good is the Heart of the Realm when he has been, by all accounts, and if Shepard is to be believed, far removed from anywhere that would make the thing even usable? He is, however, glad to see his shortbow, finely crafted and as well cared for as he had last left it, along with a quiver of arrows, fletched with golden eagle feathers. These he leaves, picking up the small, squarish device propped up against the side of the locker, quite out of place among the relics of Creation, and squints at the thing with a scowl, twisting it around.
no subject
Luckily that's not the case. The usual mix of clothes is there, her communicator. Still no weapons, no personal affects beyond what she's accumulated here on the ship, but at this point she doesn't expect it. She doesn't know if it's something wrong with her, something wrong with the locker or just the ship being a bastard, but it is what it is. So Shepard dons her underwear, a plain grey shirt and the ship's jump suit. She doesn't bother with pulling the sleeves on, instead tying them off at her middle before she shuts the locker and moves toward the lifts.
It's on her way that she runs back into him as he's fussing with the comm device. She knocks him on the back of the shoulder as she nearly, moving past him without slowing much. "This way, Emperor."
no subject
"How does this thing work?" He holds up the comm device, a brow raised, his hair regaining its normal spring, naturally falling in that way around his face that is artfully unkempt, the silver streaks near his temples more evident against the nearly black of damp hair. "Do I need to commit Essence to it?" And for the first time, his confidence falters. He has no idea what he's doing here, or why, or who anyone is. Lysander generally prides himself on his ability to roll with the punches, but it's one thing to go in fully armed and on the defensive, and quite another to wake up nude and covered in goo in a strange place surrounded by strange people.
If he'd heard the phrase from Shepard's mouth a few minutes prior, he'd certainly use 'existential crisis' to describe the floundering sensation that suddenly overcomes him.
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"What? No, you just press the buttons." There's a pause as the question she wants to ask fights its way up. She frowns very briefly, then-- "What's 'Essence?'"
no subject
A hand runs through shaggy dark strands, golden eyes shifting down to the comm unit again. "I'm not as eloquent as Eryon about all this shit. He's a sorcerer, studies the stuff for a living. I tend to tune him out most of the time, too much technical babble..." It's strange to think of someone not knowing what Essence is, and trying to describe the very thing that powers and gives life to the world you live in, as well as all its applications is a lot harder than it seems.
no subject
"Here--" She reaches out, abruptly taking the comm from him. She powers it up with a touch, tipping the screen to him so he can follow along as she navigates through the minimal menu systems. "This is your connection to the ship's comm net. You'll get alerts, messages to sort through - that kind of thing. There's also some local files you should probably read like Ianto's guide to the ship."
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