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
Damien decides to pour a finger of whiskey into his own cup as Flora toasts no one in particular, the corners of his mouth quirking. “Could be worse,” he agrees, low and wry, watching her sip. “You could’ve brought Torchline rum.”
Her laugh rings out soft and bright, and something about the way it cuts through the warm cabin air makes him glance over. Doubletake, she says. The name sticks. He doesn’t recognize it, not in the way she clearly expects him to. But something in her posture changes after she says it. Like the weight of being known just tilted in the room.
He doesn’t ask. Just files it away, tucking the moment behind his eyes.
But when she brings up Safrin, that gets a small, low exhale out of him—relieved, maybe, or at least resigned. “If one of the gods is backing your foundation,” he mutters, lifting his cup to her in a loose salute, “you probably won’t need me there.”
Still, he listens as she lays out the whole impossible dream. Solarium. Elevator. Secret rooms. Her voice dipping into something more honest near the end. And he doesn’t laugh at her, not even close. He just leans back against the edge of the counter again, letting the whiskey and coffee sit warm behind his ribs as he folds his hands loosely over his chest, and studies her with that slightly narrowed gaze, like she’s a blueprint he’s half-deciphered but still puzzling through.
He huffs quietly at the end, something low and close to amused, and turns back toward the stacks of split pine.
"Greenwing’s got enough wood," he assures, "If it doesn’t, I’ll find more."
Simple as that. No scoffing at the scale, no questioning the practicality. Just the same calm steadiness as before, shaped now with a quiet kind of respect.
The next words come a little slower, not careful exactly, but considered. "I’ve seen a lot of people build for what they think they need. A roof. A wall. Something to keep the cold out or the rain off. Never met many who build for other people. Fewer still who admit they’re doing it."
His voice is steady, as practical as always, but the look he gives her carries more weight than the words; measured and a little quiet, the way someone might regard something beautiful they hadn’t expected to find up here in the cold.
"You want something made to hold that much…you’ll need more than wood and nails. But you already know that."
Damien clears his throat then, like he’s said more than he meant to.
“I’ll start sorting timber after the snow eases. You’ll have your first load in three days, maybe two if it stays clear. You planning to be around for delivery, or should I leave it at the site?”
He gives her a glance over the rim of his cup, tone still even, matter-of-fact. “Crew’ll be eating in a bit. You’re welcome to stay if you’re not in a rush.”
Her laugh rings out soft and bright, and something about the way it cuts through the warm cabin air makes him glance over. Doubletake, she says. The name sticks. He doesn’t recognize it, not in the way she clearly expects him to. But something in her posture changes after she says it. Like the weight of being known just tilted in the room.
He doesn’t ask. Just files it away, tucking the moment behind his eyes.
But when she brings up Safrin, that gets a small, low exhale out of him—relieved, maybe, or at least resigned. “If one of the gods is backing your foundation,” he mutters, lifting his cup to her in a loose salute, “you probably won’t need me there.”
Still, he listens as she lays out the whole impossible dream. Solarium. Elevator. Secret rooms. Her voice dipping into something more honest near the end. And he doesn’t laugh at her, not even close. He just leans back against the edge of the counter again, letting the whiskey and coffee sit warm behind his ribs as he folds his hands loosely over his chest, and studies her with that slightly narrowed gaze, like she’s a blueprint he’s half-deciphered but still puzzling through.
He huffs quietly at the end, something low and close to amused, and turns back toward the stacks of split pine.
"Greenwing’s got enough wood," he assures, "If it doesn’t, I’ll find more."
Simple as that. No scoffing at the scale, no questioning the practicality. Just the same calm steadiness as before, shaped now with a quiet kind of respect.
The next words come a little slower, not careful exactly, but considered. "I’ve seen a lot of people build for what they think they need. A roof. A wall. Something to keep the cold out or the rain off. Never met many who build for other people. Fewer still who admit they’re doing it."
His voice is steady, as practical as always, but the look he gives her carries more weight than the words; measured and a little quiet, the way someone might regard something beautiful they hadn’t expected to find up here in the cold.
"You want something made to hold that much…you’ll need more than wood and nails. But you already know that."
Damien clears his throat then, like he’s said more than he meant to.
“I’ll start sorting timber after the snow eases. You’ll have your first load in three days, maybe two if it stays clear. You planning to be around for delivery, or should I leave it at the site?”
He gives her a glance over the rim of his cup, tone still even, matter-of-fact. “Crew’ll be eating in a bit. You’re welcome to stay if you’re not in a rush.”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
