DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
The forest gives no warning before the sound of slow, measured footsteps crunches along the frostbitten trail.
A figure emerges from the trees, parting the ferns with the flat of a gloved hand. He doesn’t call out or wave. Just steps into view with the patient inevitability of snowfall. His coat is worn leather, heavy and lined with faded fur, the hood down to reveal dark, wind-tousled hair and a face weathered by sun and winter both. A crossbow hangs over one shoulder and a pack rests square against his back, fastened with care. A few fresh scratches marr one boot; the handiwork of stubborn brambles.
He stops a short distance from the porch and gives a small nod toward Noah. His gaze flicks briefly to the stranger of the two (Kaisel) before settling on the lodge behind them. He seems to weigh it all in silence: the prepped lumber, the tar, the sag of the north wall. Then he speaks, voice low and even.
“Name’s Damien. Saw your posting.”
Another glance, this time to the sky, then to the stacked tools.
“Got a few days. Figured I’d lend a hand.”
He doesn’t smile, but there is no coldness to him either, just a quiet steadiness, like the kindling heat of coals under ash. He shifts his weight slightly, standing at ease though not idle.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll start on the roof. Before the weather turns.”
That was as much a greeting as he would give. He's already sizing up the ladder, the angle of the light, and the wind. Not out of impatience, but readiness and habit.
Damien arrives with his backpack which has basic supplies, a small toolkit, rope, and a set of hunting/skinning knives. He also has a crossbow.
He offers to start on the Roof!
A figure emerges from the trees, parting the ferns with the flat of a gloved hand. He doesn’t call out or wave. Just steps into view with the patient inevitability of snowfall. His coat is worn leather, heavy and lined with faded fur, the hood down to reveal dark, wind-tousled hair and a face weathered by sun and winter both. A crossbow hangs over one shoulder and a pack rests square against his back, fastened with care. A few fresh scratches marr one boot; the handiwork of stubborn brambles.
He stops a short distance from the porch and gives a small nod toward Noah. His gaze flicks briefly to the stranger of the two (Kaisel) before settling on the lodge behind them. He seems to weigh it all in silence: the prepped lumber, the tar, the sag of the north wall. Then he speaks, voice low and even.
“Name’s Damien. Saw your posting.”
Another glance, this time to the sky, then to the stacked tools.
“Got a few days. Figured I’d lend a hand.”
He doesn’t smile, but there is no coldness to him either, just a quiet steadiness, like the kindling heat of coals under ash. He shifts his weight slightly, standing at ease though not idle.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll start on the roof. Before the weather turns.”
That was as much a greeting as he would give. He's already sizing up the ladder, the angle of the light, and the wind. Not out of impatience, but readiness and habit.
Damien arrives with his backpack which has basic supplies, a small toolkit, rope, and a set of hunting/skinning knives. He also has a crossbow.
He offers to start on the Roof!
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
