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 lets a faint smirk twitch at her rum jab but doesn’t bother with a comeback. He just nods, letting the teasing fade into the background.
When she asks about the delivery, voice casual but curious, Damien nods. “It's a team effort, really. But I oversee, make sure it’s done right.” (conveniently all the NPCs Damien knows are somehow endeared to him and good with tools!)
Damien watches as she rises, the smooth way she moves betraying the quiet authority she carries; something at odds with the ease she wears like a cloak. Her gaze lingers on him just a moment longer, curious and unreadable, but there’s a flicker there, a kind of quiet appreciation that catches him off guard. He feels the weight of it, steadier than the wind pressing against the canvas walls.
It’s not warm, exactly, but it’s not cold either. It’s something in the space she holds and leaves open.
His voice breaks the silence then, calm and steady as always but carrying an edge of something he rarely lets surface. “You’re welcome,” he says, voice low but clear. “We’ll have everything ready when you need it.”
He meets her eyes, letting the moment settle a little longer before he adds, “Safe travels until then. And… if there’s anything else you need while you’re here, don’t hesitate to say so.”
The flap snaps shut behind her, and the warmth of the tent seems to fold around the quiet she left behind. Damien exhales slowly, running a hand over his face as the pieces begin to slot together—the “Doubletake,” the way she referred to Torchline as her city, that casual mention of Safrin, and the weight she carried without needing to show it off.
His eyes drift to the spot she’d just vacated, and the truth settles in with a slow, sinking weight.
Felix bursts in then, eyes wide and barely containing his excitement. “Foreman! How'd it go with the Queen of Torchline?”
Damien blinks, then lets out a humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he mutters, “I think I’m an idiot.”
[FIN]
When she asks about the delivery, voice casual but curious, Damien nods. “It's a team effort, really. But I oversee, make sure it’s done right.” (conveniently all the NPCs Damien knows are somehow endeared to him and good with tools!)
Damien watches as she rises, the smooth way she moves betraying the quiet authority she carries; something at odds with the ease she wears like a cloak. Her gaze lingers on him just a moment longer, curious and unreadable, but there’s a flicker there, a kind of quiet appreciation that catches him off guard. He feels the weight of it, steadier than the wind pressing against the canvas walls.
It’s not warm, exactly, but it’s not cold either. It’s something in the space she holds and leaves open.
His voice breaks the silence then, calm and steady as always but carrying an edge of something he rarely lets surface. “You’re welcome,” he says, voice low but clear. “We’ll have everything ready when you need it.”
He meets her eyes, letting the moment settle a little longer before he adds, “Safe travels until then. And… if there’s anything else you need while you’re here, don’t hesitate to say so.”
The flap snaps shut behind her, and the warmth of the tent seems to fold around the quiet she left behind. Damien exhales slowly, running a hand over his face as the pieces begin to slot together—the “Doubletake,” the way she referred to Torchline as her city, that casual mention of Safrin, and the weight she carried without needing to show it off.
His eyes drift to the spot she’d just vacated, and the truth settles in with a slow, sinking weight.
Felix bursts in then, eyes wide and barely containing his excitement. “Foreman! How'd it go with the Queen of Torchline?”
Damien blinks, then lets out a humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he mutters, “I think I’m an idiot.”
[FIN]
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
