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Summary
Igeyorhm pulls up a nearby stool to the side of Deudalaphon's work area, sweeping the remaining crystal shavings off the table. Without pen and parchment, Igeyorhm resorts to a mild incantation of frost, the tip of a finger sketching a quick, rough draft of the sigil she has a mind to suspend within the foci itself."Oh," says Deudalaphon, "Oh. Of course.""Then you understand?""Yes, yes. Something simple. Practical. I believe I fashioned Hythlodaeus something similar, once upon a time. Clipped to a belt, you mentioned? Will you be in to pick up your order?"Igeyorhm smiles. "Please. Have it delivered directly, if you would."OR: the unconventional means of helping a friend deal with grief in a time of need.
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