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’s lips twitch at Theea’s question, the flicker of a grin breaking through. He raises a brow, gaze deepening with memory as the bartender behind the bar, an older man with laugh lines etched deep, calls out without missing a beat, “Damien Ulfsen! ’Member that one winter fight? Nearly brought the whole place down. You owe me a new door, lad.”
The room hums with a few muted chuckles, but Damien doesn’t flinch. He simply nods with a knowing sort of almost-smile, his silence saying more than words could. His mug, long drained of its rich, smoky liquid—moonshine, no doubt—sits quietly on the bar. Unlike Theea, he doesn’t reach for payment. At least, not that kind of payment. The bartender’s glance passes between them, a silent nod to favors earned and trust built in this tight-knit place. The kind of rapport born from years of watching each other’s backs. If Theea remembered how Damien did business in the past, she'd know he preferred trading favors, know-how, or the odd bit of news over dropping a parcel on a counter. It was practical, like everything else about him.
Outside, the cold hits with a sharp bite that sets his skin tingling, a welcome contrast to the warmth still lingering in his chest. He breathes it in deeply, the frosty air crisp and invigorating. As they walk toward the lot, Damien’s eyes flicker to Theea with a spark of impulsive honesty, the kind fueled by the moonshine and the moment.
“It’s unfair,” he says, voice rough but steady, “how you had to grow up so fast.” The words slip out unguarded, hanging in the space between them before he shifts his gaze ahead.
The open lot looms before them, snow packed firm beneath their boots, crates and boxes forming a haphazard ring around the edges. Damien drops his own pack beside Theea’s, loosening his coat with a practiced ease, the fabric parting to reveal the broad set of his shoulders and the lean strength beneath. Calloused hands and old scars spoke to the life that shaped him, all grit and quiet endurance. (not that his stats would reflect such sentiments at the moment)
He squares his shoulders, settling into a stance that’s less trained warrior and more seasoned survivor. Knees slightly bent, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, hands relaxed but ready. The short, dark tufts of his hair stirred slightly in the cold, catching the flicker of brazier-fire with a dull gleam. There’s a calm in his eyes, a measured caution mixed with a playful challenge, as he locks eyes with Theea.
“Alright, teacher,” he says, voice low but carrying a hint of dry humor. “I’m no expert in formal sparring, but I’ve faced my share of scrapes.” He shifts forward, leaning into the moment, fingers curling loosely, muscles coiling just enough to spring.
Then, with a quick, careful motion, Damien throws the first punch—a lighter and faster attack, more probing jab than anything else. It’s all deliberate, teasing even, but with an edge of genuine curiosity. He watches her reaction, eyebrows raised slightly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. This is new territory, but he’s ready to see where it leads.
The room hums with a few muted chuckles, but Damien doesn’t flinch. He simply nods with a knowing sort of almost-smile, his silence saying more than words could. His mug, long drained of its rich, smoky liquid—moonshine, no doubt—sits quietly on the bar. Unlike Theea, he doesn’t reach for payment. At least, not that kind of payment. The bartender’s glance passes between them, a silent nod to favors earned and trust built in this tight-knit place. The kind of rapport born from years of watching each other’s backs. If Theea remembered how Damien did business in the past, she'd know he preferred trading favors, know-how, or the odd bit of news over dropping a parcel on a counter. It was practical, like everything else about him.
Outside, the cold hits with a sharp bite that sets his skin tingling, a welcome contrast to the warmth still lingering in his chest. He breathes it in deeply, the frosty air crisp and invigorating. As they walk toward the lot, Damien’s eyes flicker to Theea with a spark of impulsive honesty, the kind fueled by the moonshine and the moment.
“It’s unfair,” he says, voice rough but steady, “how you had to grow up so fast.” The words slip out unguarded, hanging in the space between them before he shifts his gaze ahead.
The open lot looms before them, snow packed firm beneath their boots, crates and boxes forming a haphazard ring around the edges. Damien drops his own pack beside Theea’s, loosening his coat with a practiced ease, the fabric parting to reveal the broad set of his shoulders and the lean strength beneath. Calloused hands and old scars spoke to the life that shaped him, all grit and quiet endurance. (not that his stats would reflect such sentiments at the moment)
He squares his shoulders, settling into a stance that’s less trained warrior and more seasoned survivor. Knees slightly bent, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, hands relaxed but ready. The short, dark tufts of his hair stirred slightly in the cold, catching the flicker of brazier-fire with a dull gleam. There’s a calm in his eyes, a measured caution mixed with a playful challenge, as he locks eyes with Theea.
“Alright, teacher,” he says, voice low but carrying a hint of dry humor. “I’m no expert in formal sparring, but I’ve faced my share of scrapes.” He shifts forward, leaning into the moment, fingers curling loosely, muscles coiling just enough to spring.
Then, with a quick, careful motion, Damien throws the first punch—a lighter and faster attack, more probing jab than anything else. It’s all deliberate, teasing even, but with an edge of genuine curiosity. He watches her reaction, eyebrows raised slightly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. This is new territory, but he’s ready to see where it leads.
(Training 1/4)
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
