<a class="link link--internal" href="https://bluemoonroleplaying.com/forums/showthread.php?tid=83335&amp;pid=2015179#pid2015179"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#dda0dd">Iona Knutesdottir<br/>
</span></a>The St. Anne / Bridge<br/>Evening Watch<br/>Tagged:<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000"><b>ALL</b></span><br/><br/>"Enter, mind the grav," she added automatically, voice crisp over the speaker.  Since it was Donovan she didn't really need to warn him her quarters were most likely in reduced or micro-g, but safety trumped everything else so she gave the warning just the same.  Iona was floating feet towards his left side, rotated 90 degrees relative to the hatch, and was...<br/><br/>Just floating there, eyes closed and her arms and legs partially curled up, an instinctive posture given the lack of gravity or defined up or down.  Emerald green showed at the top of her shipsut where the seam was undone, exposing her undergarment but she'd lacked the energy to do more than begin to take it off.  On her neck the adrenaline patches showed, complimented by the little bugs of analgesic bubbles.<br/><br/>"Shut the hatch," she ordered, then waited until she heard it cycle before opening her eyes.  They were tired, had seen too much damage done to her people, and while they met Donovan's they didn't match him with the intensity he was used to.  "Don't," she asked, or was it a plea, holding a palm out towards him, stopping him or at least asking him to stop from closing the distance and gathering her in his powerful but infinitely delicate arms.  "I can't.  Not...not now," she added.<br/><br/>"Can we do it?  Can we get him back?"