"Well, then: hey there, Matty." And like that, they're on the same page.
Except. There's logistics to be handled, about what they can do and what they can't do — and Dresden knows there's a lot he can-can't, these days. Even in this strange manor house, existing like a Domain of Dread ( the decadent one, he thinks ) in the middle of a Nowhere, where none of them can leave — there's still a lot he can. Magic comes easy to his fingertips, power rich and laser-focused with the scent-feel of a cool basement during the humid city summers. The taste of frozen berries on the back of his teeth, the memory of Maeve's sharp laugh as he'd played her in chess again and again and again until he'd learned how to lie well ( that is, not lie at all; the way the Fae do ).
He's got magic and Winter still, which means whatever's keeping them is precise enough to contain a man who was the equivalent of an atomic bomb with a hyperpossessive godmom always prowling in his footsteps and a Queen he's beholden to until — well, death or escape. He's banking on escape.
"So," he says, having thought that all through in silent, objective patterns. "To be honest with you, magic in my place is a bit... it's got layers, like ogres. Witches are somewhere between the hedge with a little oompha, and New Age Wicca with tarot cards and jade wands and well-practiced mentalism.
I'm thinking based on this pretty thing," he gestures to Matt's light, friendly and disarming with his quick, tense smiles and general — well, he looks worse than he is. "You're not that type of witch. What sort of specialty you got, then?"
no subject
Except. There's logistics to be handled, about what they can do and what they can't do — and Dresden knows there's a lot he can-can't, these days. Even in this strange manor house, existing like a Domain of Dread ( the decadent one, he thinks ) in the middle of a Nowhere, where none of them can leave — there's still a lot he can. Magic comes easy to his fingertips, power rich and laser-focused with the scent-feel of a cool basement during the humid city summers. The taste of frozen berries on the back of his teeth, the memory of Maeve's sharp laugh as he'd played her in chess again and again and again until he'd learned how to lie well ( that is, not lie at all; the way the Fae do ).
He's got magic and Winter still, which means whatever's keeping them is precise enough to contain a man who was the equivalent of an atomic bomb with a hyperpossessive godmom always prowling in his footsteps and a Queen he's beholden to until — well, death or escape. He's banking on escape.
"So," he says, having thought that all through in silent, objective patterns. "To be honest with you, magic in my place is a bit... it's got layers, like ogres. Witches are somewhere between the hedge with a little oompha, and New Age Wicca with tarot cards and jade wands and well-practiced mentalism.
I'm thinking based on this pretty thing," he gestures to Matt's light, friendly and disarming with his quick, tense smiles and general — well, he looks worse than he is. "You're not that type of witch. What sort of specialty you got, then?"