Not that he'd ever tell GĂ©raud so, the workshop â in addition to making him feel like a lesser life form â gives Fynn the fucking heebie jeebies. Doesn't know how his students handle it. Floor that nauseates him to look at. (He just doesn't, anymore.) Assumes GĂ©raud stole it from a funhouse, someplace. And then probably applied magic to make it worse.
And then there's the floating lights. Doesn't trust those, either. Half expects one of these days they'll come up off the counter and start launching magic lightning bolts or some shite at him. Like the combat training droids from fuckin' Star Wars.
Fynn remains in exactly the same spot, exactly the same pose (him and his gnome, his new friend) as when he came through the curtain.
But he's watching Géraud the entire time.
About the only positive thing you can say about him.
Fynn's eyes narrow at the flare of flame. (He may have a twitch, now, about sudden fire. Thanks for that. Can only hope eventually he'll stop smelling his own skin burning. âŠNot that today was the first time.)
"Oh. Yayyy." His eyebrows bob up sardonically. Nice to know he didn't burn half alive on a fruitless whim. "It's got feathers?" His eyebrows remain up. "Phoenix?"
What, he knows stories. He reads.
Géraud probably won't tell him. He's the paid fetcher, not a partner. Doesn't need to know the hows and whys. Just needs to deliver the gear intact and on time.
He doesn't expect the chain. Or the statement that accompanies it.
Tries to hide his surprise, unsure if he succeeded. Probably only find out if Géraud mocks him for it.
âŠappearance? Why the fuckin' PAUSE?
Fynn lifts a hand to dip his fingers into the collar of his shirt, finding his own worn and familiar chain. Or, technically, Bunn's chain, and cross. "Y' don't have t' believe. Less y'r memory's goin'. Saw it well enough last month when that protection sigil went off an' I was speed-strippin' in here thanks t' the magic bees generated inside my fuckin' clothes."
Is he annoyed about that still? A bit.
The Fuck You gnome gets set aside on an available shelf. Then Fynn slips his necklace up over his head, unclasps it, and slides the scratched-but-gleaming Celtic cross off and into his palm.
Eyes Géraud's chain warily before putting out a hand for it.
"Any side effects? Or d'I just get t' discover 'em for myself?"