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 voice cut through the quiet like a twig snapping under snow. Damien looked up, a slow, deliberate motion, one hand still braced on the bundle of furs at his feet.
She stood bundled nearly to the eyes, the scarf pulled so tight it turned her voice soft and muffled. Still, there was a sharpness to her; something behind the discomfort. Not quite out of place, but not at home, either. The cold had painted her cheeks raw, and her boots were too clean for someone who’d walked far on Halo’s ice.
The bear at her side was another story. Damien’s gaze settled on the creature a beat longer than strictly polite; an ursur, small, but full-blooded. He’d seen what they could do when they weren’t docile. The fact that this one followed her like a trained dog made her more interesting, not less.
He straightened. A gust of wind caught the edge of his coat, and he pulled the wool tighter across his shoulders. His own hood was fur-lined, dusted with frost; the shadows beneath it made his expression hard to read, but his eyes were sharp and pale as cut stone.
“Fox,” he said, nodding once to the pelt she’d pointed at. “Black Arctic. Harder to come by. Not much left this time of year.”
He didn’t offer a price. Not yet.
His gaze lingered on the way her fingers curled inward, trying to hold warmth in the fabric. “You’re not dressed for long,” he observed, voice even—neither mocking nor kind. Just a fact.
Then, after a beat: “You looking to buy or trade?"
She stood bundled nearly to the eyes, the scarf pulled so tight it turned her voice soft and muffled. Still, there was a sharpness to her; something behind the discomfort. Not quite out of place, but not at home, either. The cold had painted her cheeks raw, and her boots were too clean for someone who’d walked far on Halo’s ice.
The bear at her side was another story. Damien’s gaze settled on the creature a beat longer than strictly polite; an ursur, small, but full-blooded. He’d seen what they could do when they weren’t docile. The fact that this one followed her like a trained dog made her more interesting, not less.
He straightened. A gust of wind caught the edge of his coat, and he pulled the wool tighter across his shoulders. His own hood was fur-lined, dusted with frost; the shadows beneath it made his expression hard to read, but his eyes were sharp and pale as cut stone.
“Fox,” he said, nodding once to the pelt she’d pointed at. “Black Arctic. Harder to come by. Not much left this time of year.”
He didn’t offer a price. Not yet.
His gaze lingered on the way her fingers curled inward, trying to hold warmth in the fabric. “You’re not dressed for long,” he observed, voice even—neither mocking nor kind. Just a fact.
Then, after a beat: “You looking to buy or trade?"
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
