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+---- Thread: out of my depth (/showthread.php?tid=11865)
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out of my depth - Damien - 08-08-2025
The Ahi Coast was alive in a way that made Halo seem like it had been holding its breath his entire life.
White sand blazed under the midday sun, kicking heat through the soles of his boots, while the ocean breathed in slow, salty gusts that stuck to his skin. Tiki torches stood in neat, stubborn lines against the breeze, their pale flames flickering like they didn’t care whether it was day or night. Somewhere down the beach, music tangled with the surf; laughter, strings, and the steady thump of a drum that seemed to echo in his ribs.
Damien sat on a driftwood log, head bent as he rapped the heel of his boot against it until a slow avalanche of sand pattered out. His coat was long since stowed away in the ship’s hold, leaving him in his work shirt and rolled sleeves, the fabric damp where sweat and sea air had settled. The crew he’d brought from the skyship were still unloading timber in the distance, their shouts carrying over the water; he’d already put in his share of hauling and rope work, but this heat sapped the fight out of a man faster than he liked to admit.
The water glittered to his left, deceptively inviting. He kept one eye on it anyway, the way a man might watch a wild animal—curious, but wary enough to stay out of striking distance. Swimming wasn’t in his skillset, and he had no intention of testing the ocean’s opinion on that.
He dragged a hand across the back of his neck, flicked the last of the sand from his boot, and let his gaze wander down the beach. Any minute now, she’d be here. And if he had any sense, the first words out of his mouth wouldn’t be about sand, sweat, or how much he hated this weather.
Still, he owed her something first.
RE: out of my depth - Flora - 08-08-2025
The shoreline is warm silk under her feet, each step pressing crescent moons into the wet sand before the tide rushes in to claim them. The water is cool enough to tease but not chase her out, wrapping over her ankles in quicksilver ribbons before curling back toward the horizon. Sunlight makes a shifting mosaic on the surface, dazzling to look at for too long, so she keeps her gaze ahead, one hand absently brushing at the hem of her knotted shirt where the breeze keeps trying to tangle it around her waist.
Torchline smells like home today—hibiscus and salt, grilled fish somewhere up the beach, a thread of sugar from whatever vendor thought to ply sweets in this heat. It sticks to her skin along with the salt air, making her curls cling in gold-tipped spirals where they’ve fallen from her braid. A far cry from Halo’s furs and frostbite; this is how she’s meant to be—bare-legged in soft linen shorts, shirt loose enough to invite the breeze, every inch of her at ease in the heat.
Spice flies in lazy arcs overhead, white wings scattering little shivers of cold air down to her as if in solidarity with the cooler climate they left behind. The dragon’s shadow skims over the shoreline like an impatient tide, darting ahead and circling back, until something farther up the beach catches Flora’s attention.
Damien, all rolled sleeves and driftwood posture, looks like the sand is one ill-timed gust away from swallowing him whole. There’s a damp patch clinging dark across his shoulder, a certain Halo-man-in-the-tropics stiffness in the way he sits that makes her grin before she’s even angled toward him. She lets the waves claim a few more steps before cutting across the sand, lifting a hand in greeting as the heat soaks into her soles.
[say]"Well,"[/say] she calls, voice smooth and teasing enough to carry on the salt wind, [say]"look at you—surviving the tropics without combusting. I’m impressed."[/say] The smile she gives him is brighter than the torches lining the beach, and wholly unhurried, as if she’s not approaching the man delivering the bones of her future home but an old friend she intends to tease until he grins.
RE: out of my depth - Damien - 08-11-2025
Damien shifts on the driftwood as he lifts dark brown sunglasses to shade eyes tired from squinting against the sun. When Flora’s voice drifts over the shore, a faint curve tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's part surprise, part reluctant amusement.
He watches her approach, noting how the breeze toys with the loose hem of her shirt, how the sunlight catches the gold in her curls, and the lazy arcs her small dragon traces overhead. There’s an effortless grace about her here. It makes him respect her a little more. Being comfortable in one’s skin was a rare thing. [say]“I’m still not used to the heat, but it seems like it suits you,”[/say] he replies, voice steady.
Dusting sand from his pants, he rises and steps closer, hesitating for a moment as he's caught between offering a hand and bowing. Instead, he extends his arm toward the driftwood log beside him, a silent invitation to sit.
Removing his sunglasses, his gaze sharpens as he turns serious. [say]“About last time... I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,”[/say] he says, watching her closely for any sign of offense. He didn't offer excuses for himself, just, [say]“I hope I didn’t come off the wrong way.”[/say] He doesn’t pretend to fully understand the quiet command she carries—how a queen could hold a room without theatrics—but he respects it deeply. [say]“If I did, I want to make it right.”[/say] There’s a quiet confidence in his tone, as if he’s certain he can.
His eyes flick briefly down the coast, to the heavy bundles of timber still being stacked near the shore, then return to her. [say]“I double-checked the Greenwing’s load. It’s enough for the solarium, the secret rooms, and those foundation reinforcements you mentioned. I don’t take plans lightly. Especially a queen’s.”[/say] The words carry weight, not mockery or deference, but something steadier. Respect earned, and quietly given.
RE: out of my depth - Flora - 08-12-2025
Up close, he looks less like the man she’d met in Halo and more like someone Torchline might try to claim if it weren’t so obvious he’d never quite belong here. The sunlight burns bronze across his skin, catching in the faint scruff along his jaw, and the rolled sleeves reveal forearms corded from work, not for show. There’s a salt-slick shine on his collarbone where the heat’s pressed too close, and the dark line of his sunglasses makes his expression harder to read, until her voice pulls a faint smile from him.
Flora's chuckle is low and warm, shoulders rolling in agreement. [say]"It’s easier to bear when there’s an ocean to dive into,"[/say] she says, tipping her head toward the glittering surf, [say]"or a dragon around to keep you cool."[/say] Overhead, Spice answers with a lazy spiral, the downdraft ruffling Flora’s hair like a conspirator.
When Damien pushes to his feet, the queen tilts her chin up to meet him, curiosity tugging at her mouth as she wonders what he meant to do—offer a hand, a bow— or maybe something else entirely. The silent gesture toward the driftwood earns a quirk of her brow, but she crosses the sand without hesitation, sinking into the weather-smoothed seat with the kind of easy sprawl that comes from knowing the tide won’t touch her here.
His apology draws a quiet snort, half-hidden behind the rim of her smile. [say]"Please. My ego’s not that fragile,"[/say] she says, resting an elbow on her knee. [say]"But now I have to ask—what would you have done differently? Aside from adding something obnoxious like ‘your highness’ to every sentence or pulling out my chair for me?"[/say] The teasing is light, but her eyes hold steady on his, curious to see if he’ll play along, or what he genuinely might have done differently.
Following the flick of his gaze down the beach, she catches sight of the timber stacked in neat palettes, the pale edges of the cut wood glowing in the sun. A grin curls slow and sure across her lips, the shape of the future already sketching itself behind her eyes. [say]"Amazing,"[/say] she says. [say]"I’ve got a crew lined up to start assembly in a few days."[/say] Her fingers drum lightly against her thigh, restless with the thought of it taking shape; of walls rising from sand, of a house meant to outlast the storms.
RE: out of my depth - Damien - 08-12-2025
Damien lets the faint smile linger, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s weighing how much to lean into her tease before settling on a slow, dry chuckle. [say]“‘Your highness’... wouldn’t have suited me,”[/say] he says, voice low but edged with humor. He doesn't think it suits her either, especially by her tone, but keeps that to himself. [say]“I’m not exactly court material. But,”[/say] he pauses, lifting his hand to adjust his sunglasses, [say]“I guess what I’d do differently is not wait until after the fact to realize who I was dealing with. I should’ve known, or at least asked. Instead of just focusing on the job, I’d take a moment to acknowledge you—the queen, the woman behind the plans. That respect belongs up front, not as an afterthought.”[/say] He’d treated her mostly like any other client, not the queen of Torchline.
His gaze flickers up as he studies her calm ease on the driftwood, the way the sun softens her features and makes her hair gleam like spun gold. Then back to her eyes. [say]“Though, truth be told,”[/say] he adds quietly, voice steady and thoughtful, [say]“you don’t act like any queen I’ve heard of. Not high and mighty. You don’t look down on me, either.”[/say] He inclines his head, the barest trace of a frown knitting his brow—not from doubt, but from puzzling admiration.
As he finds a new place to sit somewhere in the sand beside the log, the sand crunches beneath his weight and a stray breeze tugs at his shirt. He runs a hand over the back of his neck before crossing his arms loosely, forearms catching the sunlight and glinting with faint beads of sweat.
[say]“Good,”[/say] he says of the construction, voice low and sure. [say]“That house will be in steady hands, then.”[/say] His eyes flick to the neatly stacked timber palettes, their pale edges glowing bright in the sun. [say]“I’ll keep the deliveries on schedule — no delays from our end.”[/say] His jaw tightens ever so slightly, the muscles working under the sun, betraying the focus beneath his calm exterior.
His gaze drifts to the small dragon spiraling overhead, then back to the ocean’s edge. He glances toward Flora again, the faint smirk returning as he leans forward, resting one forearm on his knee. [say]“If you need anything else while the build’s underway, I’ll hang around the coast for another day or so.”[/say] He lowers his sunglasses to meet her eyes. [say]“Might as well give that Torchline rum another shot,”[/say] he adds, the challenge light but genuine.
RE: out of my depth - Flora - 08-12-2025
Flora wrinkles her nose, lips curling in something between amusement and mock distaste. [say]"Well it definitely doesn’t suit me,"[/say] she says, voice warm with the ease of someone entirely sure of that fact. At the rest, her shoulders lift in a light shrug, gold rings catching the sun. [say]"Seems a bit inconvenient to go around asking every person if they’re some ruler or another when you take on a job. Though—"[/say] her mouth curves, tone dipping into something cheeky, [say]"—if you’re really worried about it, you could always add it to your order form. Right next to ‘lumber type’ and ‘delivery date.’"[/say]
She tips her head, braid sliding over her shoulder. [say]"I don’t really expect much deference in other regions anyway, least of all in Halo."[/say]
Her gaze sharpens then, head canting to the side as her eyes narrow in mock scrutiny. [say]"Is...that supposed to be a criticism?"[/say] she asks, voice lilting with faux offense. [say]"Because if it’d make you feel more comfortable, I can happily throw you in jail for your purported insolence."[/say] The term comes out with deliberate over-pronunciation, her grin slipping wicked at the edges.
When he settles into the sand beside her, she watches him for a moment, noting the sunlight slicking along his temples and the back of his neck. Without a word, she flicks a glance skyward, sending a silent nudge up to Spice. The little dragon dips in a lazy spiral before fanning them both with a crisp, salt-laced breeze, the kind that smells faintly of distant rain.
At the mention of rum, Flora’s smile blossoms wide with mischief. She springs to her feet, the motion quick enough to send her braid swaying. [say]"Nearly forgot,"[/say] she says, stretching both hands toward him in a no-room-for-argument gesture. [say]"We should absolutely go now."[/say] Her grin tilts crooked as she adds, with mock solemnity, [say]"And if you turn me down, I’ll have to take it as a personal slight and an insult to Torchline. Which means I’ll be forced to write to Deimos about the conduct of his citizens."[/say] The glint in her aqua eyes makes it perfectly clear she’s already picturing the letter and the sorts of lies she might tell Halo's Warden.
RE: out of my depth - Damien - 08-14-2025
[say]“Right,”[/say] he says, a brow arcing, [say]“Lumber type, delivery date… and monarchial titles. Makes the paperwork more exciting, I guess.”[/say] He lets that sink in a beat, glancing down at the sand before meeting her eyes again.
Her mock scrutiny earns a small, measured chuckle from him. He shakes his head slowly, one hand brushing a few grains of sand from his knee. [say]“No criticism intended,”[/say] he says, tone even but dry. [say]“Though if you do throw me in jail, I’ll want to know if there’s any paperwork involved there, too.”[/say] The faint lift at one corner of his mouth betrays the humor, but there’s the steady calm of a man who isn’t genuinely worried about being ‘accused’ by a queen.
When she springs to her feet, Damien rises as well, dusting the sand off his pants with [at this point] practiced efficiency. He adjusts the sunglasses back over his eyes and gives a small, resigned shake of his head. [say]“I’d hardly say no,”[/say] he replies, voice low but amused, [say]“even if it was a personal slight. Lead the way, Your—”[/say] he pauses, smirking faintly, [say]“—highness.”[/say] He doesn’t overdo the title, letting the humor ride just on the edge of teasing without feeling forced.
As they start walking toward wherever she’s leading him, his head tilts toward the little dragon spiraling overhead. He doesn’t comment on the cool breeze, but his posture relaxes slightly, shoulders losing a touch of the workday tension, letting himself enjoy the moment even if only subtly. His smirk fades into a small, admiring smile. [say]"That's your companion? She's beautiful. What's her name?"[/say]
RE: out of my depth - Flora - 08-15-2025
Flora’s grin blooms quick, her brows bouncing once in amused acknowledgement. [say]"Paperwork in jail?"[/say] she echoes, shaking her head with a soft laugh. [say]"No chance. I’m not nearly foolish enough to leave a paper trail when I’m abusing my power."[/say] The remark comes with a glint of mischief, her voice smoothing it over like the shine on sea glass.
The flat look she levels at him when your highness slips past his lips is pure theatre; eyes narrowed just long enough to sell the point before she rolls them skyward and lets a laugh slip free. She turns them naturally toward the waterline, where the waves curl cool over her bare feet and the sand beneath stays firm, each step sending up a sparkle of spray.
At the mention of her dragon, her gaze tips upward, catching the flash of white wings as Spice arcs lazily above. [say]"Her name’s Spice,"[/say] she says, voice softening as she watches the dragon wheel into the light. [say]"One of my dads found her egg beside her mother’s body. Everything else in the nest was either destroyed or eaten, but he managed to save her."[/say] There’s no drama in the telling, just a quiet truth worn smooth over time.
Her eyes slide back to him as they walk, the sea hissing softly against the shore. [say]"Ronin named her Spice because he also has a dragon called Sugar, so he figured it suited. But she chose to stay with me rather than bond to him."[/say]
RE: out of my depth - Damien - 08-15-2025
Damien listens without interruption, gaze tracking the dragon’s slow, sure spirals overhead. Spice’s pale wings cut bright arcs through the blue, catching sun like salt spray on steel. The story earns a slow incline of his head, not quite reverence but respect for the survival, maybe, or for the fact Flora tells it plain without gilding it.
[say]“She's lucky your dad found her,”[/say] he says at last, voice low enough to blend with the hiss of the tide. Curiosity lingers in the glance he gives her, as though he’s taking mental measure of her world and its reach. [say]“Guess she decided you were the better companion,”[/say] he says, voice low, a hint of wry humor threading through.
He adjusts his stride to match hers along the waterline, the firm sand cool under his boots where the waves have pulled back. A breeze slips in off the ocean, carrying salt and the faint tang of something floral; some seaweed just starting to dry on the rocks up ahead. The sun presses warm against his back, a steady counter to the water’s cool bite at his ankles when the spray catches him.
He pushes his sunglasses a touch higher on the bridge of his nose before looking forward again, tracking the curve of the beach where pale driftwood lies scattered like bones. [say]“So…”[/say] The word is drawn out just enough to tilt it toward humor without undercutting the genuine ask. [say]“Where exactly are you taking me? I’d like to know whether I’m walking into a tavern or a trap.”[/say] His tone is dry, but the smirk at the edge of his mouth keeps it easy.
RE: out of my depth - Flora - 08-16-2025
Flora tips her head back with a bright laugh. [say]"Oh, trust me, Sugar’s just as territorial as Spice is. If my dad had ended up with both, they’d have ganged up on him and made his life absolute hell. He’d never have stood a chance."[/say] The grin that follows is wide and easy, salt air curling her braid against her collarbone as she steps a little closer to the waves lapping cool over her toes.
In response to Damien's terribly dry question, she flicks a glance over her shoulder at him, brows bouncing up once in mock secrecy before she nods ahead. The sprawl of the port is already cutting a bright shape against the coastline, masts and sails bobbing against the horizon like stitched banners. [say]"That,"[/say] she says, pointing with her chin, [say]"would be the Lucky Rum Fountain. Built it a few years back to give all our sailors a blessing before they head out to sea. Luck in liquid form."[/say]
By the time they reach the docks, music has woven itself into the air, mingling with the brine and pitch. Flora steps straight up to the stone fountain, its carvings etched deep with mermaids and waves, and swipes two small glasses from the tray nearby. Symbols of anchors, compasses, and ship wheels catch the sun across their rims as she dips them beneath the white stream flowing steady from the spout.
She hands one to Damien with a grin tugging her lips crooked. [say]"Moment of truth."[/say] Her own glass tips back in one smooth swallow. The rum slips down sharp and clean, without the syrupy bite that ruins lesser blends. It’s good—, but that isn’t what makes her cheeks flush; what makes her fingers tingle, what sets her laugh spilling bright and startled into the air, is the rush of luck that floods her veins. A fluttery, impossible sort of adrenaline, like she could walk a tightrope blindfolded or take on the tide and win.
Lowering her empty glass, she shakes her head, eyes sparkling. [say]"There’s no Halovian whiskey that can do that,"[/say] she says, voice husky with amusement, her smile daring him to disagree as literal luck courses through her veins.
RE: out of my depth - Damien - 08-18-2025
Damien takes the offered glass, turning it in his hand as if inspecting the carved symbols was part of some serious evaluation. The sun glints sharp along the rim, catching against his thumb before he finally tips the glass back in one smooth motion. The rum hits fast — bright, clean, with none of the muddled heaviness he’s come to expect from strong drink. It spreads like fire without burn, flooding through him with a buzz so sharp and exhilarating that for half a breath he thinks he might laugh out loud. Instead, he exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening, like he’s holding back something private.
When the rush steadies, his lips twitch once at the corner. [say]“...Not bad,”[/say] he says, far too casually, lowering the glass like it’s just another drink. He rolls his shoulders once as though working out a kink, when in reality it’s the sharp, impossible clarity still rattling through his blood. [say]“Bit light on the finish, though. Halo whiskey would’ve lasted longer.”[/say] The faint smirk betrays him just enough, the kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He sets the glass carefully on the fountain’s ledge, eyes flicking to hers with the deliberate calm of someone pretending nothing just rocked their world. [say]“But I’ll give it this much—it doesn’t taste like something that could strip paint. Which makes it a rare breed around here, I imagine.”[/say]
His gaze drifts to the fountain itself, tracing the carved mermaids with a thoughtful squint, then out to the port where the masts bob in the salt-hazed distance. Music coils between the gull cries and the pitch-heavy air, threads of fiddle and drum weaving bright across the docks. [say]“You really built all this to give people luck?”[/say] he asks finally, his tone balanced on the line between disbelief and grudging respect. A slow shake of his head follows. [say]“Torchline doesn’t do anything halfway, does it.”[/say]
There’s no real judgment in it, more an observation — the kind of dry, restrained comment that gives her space to run with the story if she wanted to, while the faint lift at his mouth betrays his amusement. His hand lingers on the empty glass, thumb running once along the carved edge before he glances sidelong at her, adding with low humor: [say]“Suppose I’ll need another round, just to be sure my review’s fair.”[/say]
RE: out of my depth - Flora - 08-19-2025
Flora tips her chin just so, watching him the way one might watch dice tumble across a tavern table; eyes sharp for the moment they settle, for the give-away flicker before the verdict is spoken. The twitch of his jaw has her aqua gaze darting there, the curve of her smile spreading slow and crooked when his reply lands entirely too casual for the flush rising beneath it.
She bites the inside of her cheek, holding back the obvious quip about lasting longer, and instead lets her tone smooth into something lighter. [say]"Here in Torchline,"[/say] she says, lashes low as she studies the colour blooming warm on his cheeks, [say]"our liquor’s allowed to just taste good. It doesn’t need to burn holes in your throat for minutes after just to keep you from freezing solid."[/say] Her smirk deepens, twisting wry as the magic works its way into him.
His comment about paint earns her loud, scandalised [say]"Hey!"[/say]—half laugh, half protest—as her elbow nudges playfully into his arm. She recovers quickly with a grin, nodding toward the fountain. [say]"But yes. Luck. Every sailor gets a sip before heading out. It’s tradition now, and the sea takes tradition seriously."[/say]
When he remarks about Torchline not doing things halfway, she only laughs, shaking her head as sunlight catches on the stack of rings circling her fingers. She holds her hand up, wiggling them before pointing to one in particular, its metal glinting bright. s[ay]"This one?"[/say] she says, the grin gone sly. [say]"Controls the stargate we built. I can open it anywhere in Torchline."[/say] Her eyes flick to his, mischief bright. [say]"So, just in case you get any ideas while you’re here."[/say] The chuckle that follows is warm, wicked, and very clearly a dare.
His request for another round earns him an approving bite of her lower lip. [say]"I’ll join you,"[/say] she says, dipping her glass back beneath the flow. This time the pour is generous, the etched symbols catching sunlight through the clear liquid. She lifts it, rim brushing her mouth but not yet tipped, her smile curving wide as her eyes lock on his. [say]"Soooo,"[/say] she says, voice lilting as the surf hisses against the docks behind them, [say]"were you born in Halo—or did you make the punishing choice to live there on your own?"[/say]
RE: out of my depth - Damien - 08-19-2025
Damien lets her words about tradition sink in with the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but measured. He glances toward the sea as though he could see the weight of centuries moving beneath the waves, carrying ships and bodies and luck both blessed and broken. [say]“I believe that,”[/say] he says finally, tone pitched low enough that it folds into the sound of gulls and rigging creaking overhead. His mouth quirks just slightly. [say]“Up north, the mountains and tundra demand the same.”[/say] There’s no dramatics to it, just a plain and quiet truth, the sort that belongs to someone who’s lived it.
When she wiggles her fingers and the stargate ring catches the light, his eyes fix on it with a steadiness that lingers longer than polite curiosity. For a beat, his expression goes unreadable behind the dark glass of his shades, but the weight in it is obvious. [say]“A star gate, huh,”[/say] he echoes, voice edged with genuine curiosity. [say]“I'd heard Torchline is quite loyal to Safrin.”[/say] The implication hung between them, more statement than question, but leaving space for her to fill in the meaning.
But the next moment, he’s covering the gravity with a sharp swallow from his glass, the second round of rum burning brighter and cleaner than the first. It rolls through his veins with the unrelenting rush of a storm surge, stripping his bones bare and filling them with something electric. His hand tightens slightly around the glass — the only betrayal — before he sets it down again and clears his throat. [say]“...Still overrated,”[/say] he says rather bravely, voice roughened just enough that the lie is obvious, though he sells it with the stubborn calm of a man defending a bad hand at cards. [say]“Nothing Torchline brews will ever match a Halo Deepfrost whiskey. Must be the altitude.”[/say]
When her lilting question lands, he shifts his weight, watching the line where ocean froth curls against the wood of the docks. [say]“Born there,”[/say] he answers simply at first, letting the quiet stretch just a second too long before adding, [say]“Some might say that’s punishment enough.”[/say] The dry curve of his mouth makes it clear he’s joking, but the undertone is there, the acknowledgment that Halo is not a place people tend to choose, at least not without a reason carved deep enough to survive the cold.
He glances back at her, his sunglasses catching the flare of sunlight off the waves, and adds, [say]“Still, there’s something about it. You grow up in Halo, and it grows into you. Hard to leave behind, even when you try.”[/say] His voice dips, almost as if the words are more for himself than for her, before the humor resurfaces like a cork bobbing back to the surface. [say]“Besides,”[/say] he smirks, [say]“if I left, who’d keep the whiskey industry honest?”[/say]
[say]"What about you? Has your home always been here?"[/say] He vollied her own question back at her, though his curiosity carried a genuine edge. He had the sense Flora wasn’t… ordinary, not with parents like hers, but he didn’t yet know how to ask about that without overstepping.
RE: out of my depth - Flora - 08-20-2025
Flora shrugs at the mention of Safrin, the motion easy, shoulders rolling as her rings catch the light. [say]"She took a particular interest in Torchline a while back,"[/say] she says, tone matter-of-fact but not dismissive. [say]"So far, it’s worked out well enough for us."[/say]
Her eyes narrow, lips pursing as she tilts her chin up toward him in playful skepticism, letting her agreement land with deliberate dryness. [say]"Must be,"[/say] she says of the altitude, her smirk betraying her amusement as it tugs crooked at her mouth. The look she flicks at him after makes it clear she doesn’t buy his stubborn verdict for a second, but she's willing to forgo a further argument about it.
As Damien gazes out to sea, Flora takes in the line of his face, watching how the light cuts across his jaw and the sunglasses sharpen the rest. His dry joke about Halo being punishment enough earns a chuckle under her breath—because in her opinion, it is—but she listens with genuine interest as his words settle into something heavier. There’s something undeniably romantic about it, she thinks, making a place that harsh your own. His return to whiskey as if to lighten it again has her laughing outright, bright and sudden, her cheeks pink with rum. [say]"It's the gods’ work you're doing out there, then,"[/say] she agrees, tipping her glass in mock salute.
When the question returns to her, she glances down into her glass, the magical warmth humming through her veins, before shaking her head lightly. [say]"Not here,"[/say] she admits. [say]"I was born in the Greatwood, mostly raised by my grandmother."[/say] Her voice softens with the memory, though it doesn’t linger there long. [say]"When my twin and I turned sixteen, we moved to Torchline."[/say] She pauses, the smile slipping, her words shifting sober. [say]"It was right before the war. He died in it."[/say] The admission hangs unadorned, without her usual armour of quips or dramatics, though the way she tips her glass back after speaks louder than anything. The rum burns down her throat in a long swallow, chasing ghosts back into the dark.
By the time she sets it down, her smile is back, bright enough, but it only brushes against her eyes. [say]"And then, well—"[/say] she spreads a hand like it explains everything, [say]"I nearly packed it in. But instead, I took over a bar and then became queen."[/say] She leans forward a touch, grin twisting into something that only gestures at how blunt a point she'd put on those foundational years of her life. [say]"Y’know. As one does."[/say]