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 Greenwing’s chill cuts through thick layers, but the work doesn’t pause. Damien stands near a half-felled pine, muscles straining as he signals the crew to shift their weight and brace for the final cut. The tree groans, ancient and heavy; a slow, angry sound that fills the clearing as it begins to lean, creaking and complaining against the frozen earth like it’s trying to resist death.
Around him, axes flash and saws rasp, slicing through wood and frost. Boots crunch on brittle underbrush and shattered bark, the sound sharp and dry. Smoke curls from stout tents that ring the clearcut’s edge, thick hides and canvas pulled tight against the wind. Inside, fires burn low, flickering warmth through small shuttered windows—but most faces aren’t near the flames. Damien’s got nearly all hands pressed into the work, moving with grim focus under his watchful eye.
His voice cuts through the racket. “Steady! Hold your positions. Watch your footing.” He doesn’t break his stare from the falling tree, watching the angles, the slow surrender.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, something moves on the path leading in. His jaw clamps shut, tightening. He wipes the sweat and dirt from his brow with a grimy hand, narrowing his gaze. The envoy, then. The unknown. Not a surprise. This part of the job always carries a wild card. He’s not eager to pause his work for introductions or social rituals. When the tree slams down with a heavy crash that shakes the clearing, Damien finally turns. The axe hangs from his belt, he claps the sawdust from his rough hands, and readies himself to meet whoever Torchline has sent to inspect the lumber.
His gaze sharpens, eyes narrowing just a touch as he takes in the figure before him; an unspoken measure, quick and quiet, weighing purpose and presence.
“Torchline, right? Made it through the cold all right, I hope. No time to waste,” he says, voice flat but efficient, “Come on, I’ll show you the timber.”
Around him, axes flash and saws rasp, slicing through wood and frost. Boots crunch on brittle underbrush and shattered bark, the sound sharp and dry. Smoke curls from stout tents that ring the clearcut’s edge, thick hides and canvas pulled tight against the wind. Inside, fires burn low, flickering warmth through small shuttered windows—but most faces aren’t near the flames. Damien’s got nearly all hands pressed into the work, moving with grim focus under his watchful eye.
His voice cuts through the racket. “Steady! Hold your positions. Watch your footing.” He doesn’t break his stare from the falling tree, watching the angles, the slow surrender.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, something moves on the path leading in. His jaw clamps shut, tightening. He wipes the sweat and dirt from his brow with a grimy hand, narrowing his gaze. The envoy, then. The unknown. Not a surprise. This part of the job always carries a wild card. He’s not eager to pause his work for introductions or social rituals. When the tree slams down with a heavy crash that shakes the clearing, Damien finally turns. The axe hangs from his belt, he claps the sawdust from his rough hands, and readies himself to meet whoever Torchline has sent to inspect the lumber.
His gaze sharpens, eyes narrowing just a touch as he takes in the figure before him; an unspoken measure, quick and quiet, weighing purpose and presence.
“Torchline, right? Made it through the cold all right, I hope. No time to waste,” he says, voice flat but efficient, “Come on, I’ll show you the timber.”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
