Our father who... the words evade his thoughts and Warsman glances sideways, ever aware of his own presence and trying not to raise his line of sight to the point where it might just cross Lady Valdemar's. He'd like to admire the chapel in all its gothic splendour, but he finds himself waiting until her back is turned before he gets to his feet and pads softly to the side as though he were a thief rather than a guest. A subject, too. Maybe that's why he's so eager to remove himself from Lady Valdemar's sight; when she looks at him, he feels her eyes blueprinting his entire body.
And he doesn't want to feel that. Not on today of all days, when simply sitting before the altar was enough to make him wonder if a man with a metal heart could truly call himself a Godly creation.
But that line of thought could only make him maudlin, and so he focuses instead on the elegant white walls- he'd rather worry about whether his own dark suit, perfectly acceptable by most people's standards, looks shabby by comparison, or whether wearing his helmet in here is disrespectful. Then again, he isn't sure that anyone here looks particularly at ease this morning. It's too quiet in here, the space too large for so few people to fill it comfortably.
With his size, though, standing around like this is making Warsman feel even more conspicuous, and so he quickly makes towards the trays of candles towards the back of the chapel. Taking one of the lit candles, he carefully tilts it so that the flame touches an unlit wick until it flares up itself. He might not be in any position to ask God for mercy even in the name of others, but going through the motions is soothing in its own way and he finds himself lighting a second and a third just to find something to do with his hands.
no subject
And he doesn't want to feel that. Not on today of all days, when simply sitting before the altar was enough to make him wonder if a man with a metal heart could truly call himself a Godly creation.
But that line of thought could only make him maudlin, and so he focuses instead on the elegant white walls- he'd rather worry about whether his own dark suit, perfectly acceptable by most people's standards, looks shabby by comparison, or whether wearing his helmet in here is disrespectful. Then again, he isn't sure that anyone here looks particularly at ease this morning. It's too quiet in here, the space too large for so few people to fill it comfortably.
With his size, though, standing around like this is making Warsman feel even more conspicuous, and so he quickly makes towards the trays of candles towards the back of the chapel. Taking one of the lit candles, he carefully tilts it so that the flame touches an unlit wick until it flares up itself. He might not be in any position to ask God for mercy even in the name of others, but going through the motions is soothing in its own way and he finds himself lighting a second and a third just to find something to do with his hands.