Thalassa
Hands getting cold
Thal hasn't felt safe many times in her remembered life, but she likes to think that it feels something like Asta. He's soft but solid like the scars against her cheek, while giving a warmth that reaches deeper than the surface to fight the chill that had settled there. His voice is a gentle hand against her aching heart with all the right words to banish her worries, and the smell of whiskey and smoke fill in the rest of the holes that might make her want to collapse.
She knows she should be scared of the feeling, scared of being so close to someone, of possibly losing them - especially after everything with Maea - but Thal can't find it in her to care right now. In fact, her lips twitch in the barest ghost of a smile at his laughter. "That's what I told her." And any other day, she might have flared the fire near them, putting on a flash of fangs for any who might have the guts - the audacity - to stand against them. She'd growl it in the face of whoever dared to suggest otherwise, threatening bodily harm and other means of suffering.
But today, Thal lets the more serious nature of the topic quell the anger. She momentarily leans a little more into him and glances up briefly so he might see the concern there, for the trouble that may be on the horizon. "I just worry for your sake that she won't stay quiet." Even if people don't come for the Grounds with pitchforks and guillotines, glaring eyes and sharp words can be just as painful to endure; and short of killing Maea (which, despite every reasonable thought, she doesn't want to do), Thal doesn't see a way out.
The tightening of his hold anchors her, reminds her that they're not living in some dystopian fantasy that Maea's imagined, and she's not alone. Even so, she shrugs her shoulders, watching as her hands fidget with the sleeves of her blouse. "Maybe not, but she definitely knows how to make me feel like a terrible person and a worse friend." She pauses, trying to puzzle through where she might have gone wrong. "No matter what I did for her, or how I tried to support her - protect her - she didn't care. She said she'd rather be alone than with me..." Just like she'd said she'd rather be dead than be like Asta. The woman knew how to hit just the right buttons, knew how to burn bridges like it was an artform.
She knows she should be scared of the feeling, scared of being so close to someone, of possibly losing them - especially after everything with Maea - but Thal can't find it in her to care right now. In fact, her lips twitch in the barest ghost of a smile at his laughter. "That's what I told her." And any other day, she might have flared the fire near them, putting on a flash of fangs for any who might have the guts - the audacity - to stand against them. She'd growl it in the face of whoever dared to suggest otherwise, threatening bodily harm and other means of suffering.
But today, Thal lets the more serious nature of the topic quell the anger. She momentarily leans a little more into him and glances up briefly so he might see the concern there, for the trouble that may be on the horizon. "I just worry for your sake that she won't stay quiet." Even if people don't come for the Grounds with pitchforks and guillotines, glaring eyes and sharp words can be just as painful to endure; and short of killing Maea (which, despite every reasonable thought, she doesn't want to do), Thal doesn't see a way out.
The tightening of his hold anchors her, reminds her that they're not living in some dystopian fantasy that Maea's imagined, and she's not alone. Even so, she shrugs her shoulders, watching as her hands fidget with the sleeves of her blouse. "Maybe not, but she definitely knows how to make me feel like a terrible person and a worse friend." She pauses, trying to puzzle through where she might have gone wrong. "No matter what I did for her, or how I tried to support her - protect her - she didn't care. She said she'd rather be alone than with me..." Just like she'd said she'd rather be dead than be like Asta. The woman knew how to hit just the right buttons, knew how to burn bridges like it was an artform.
Losing feeling is getting old
Was I made from a broken mold?
Was I made from a broken mold?
