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 watched her pull her coat tighter, the way the cold still managed to bite despite the layers. There was something in her stance—a quiet stubbornness—that made him think she wasn’t as softened by time away as she claimed. Halo didn’t let its people go easy. Not truly.
He tied off the black fox pelt with careful hands, then looked up at her with something warmer in his eyes, though still measured and cautious. A faint crease softened the hard line of his mouth, just enough to suggest he respected her honesty.
“This place has a way of keeping you sharp. Doesn’t let anyone forget what the cold can do.” He said, voice low but steady.
He glanced briefly at the small ursur beside her, then back to her face partly hidden behind the scarf. Fateweaver lingered in his mind; a name he’d heard, tied to stories and whispers in Halo. But what or how much of it was true, he wondered.
“I’d prefer the trade, actually,” he said, setting the pelt down gently. “The fox is yours, and if you need more pelts I've got plenty of them. Most of them should take to dye pretty well, if you need it all to match. All in exchange for a reading. And maybe a few questions? I’ve never met a seer before.”
He nodded toward a squat stone building at the edge of the square, a thin plume of smoke curling from its chimney. “There’s a bit of a workshop just there." The thick walls were dusted with frost, heavy timbers framing the door like a fortress against the cold.
A fogged-over window offered a glimpse inside. Amber light spilled out unevenly, catching glimpses of shadowed figures moving slowly through the small space. The low murmur of conversation drifted faintly through the air, promising warmth and shelter from the cold.
“It’s no palace,” Damien pointed out, “but it’ll keep the frost off, and you can find whatever tools you might need.” His tone was straightforward but carried a quiet curiosity, an invitation without pressure. His brows raised as he looked back at her. “If that sounds alright to you.”
He tied off the black fox pelt with careful hands, then looked up at her with something warmer in his eyes, though still measured and cautious. A faint crease softened the hard line of his mouth, just enough to suggest he respected her honesty.
“This place has a way of keeping you sharp. Doesn’t let anyone forget what the cold can do.” He said, voice low but steady.
He glanced briefly at the small ursur beside her, then back to her face partly hidden behind the scarf. Fateweaver lingered in his mind; a name he’d heard, tied to stories and whispers in Halo. But what or how much of it was true, he wondered.
“I’d prefer the trade, actually,” he said, setting the pelt down gently. “The fox is yours, and if you need more pelts I've got plenty of them. Most of them should take to dye pretty well, if you need it all to match. All in exchange for a reading. And maybe a few questions? I’ve never met a seer before.”
He nodded toward a squat stone building at the edge of the square, a thin plume of smoke curling from its chimney. “There’s a bit of a workshop just there." The thick walls were dusted with frost, heavy timbers framing the door like a fortress against the cold.
A fogged-over window offered a glimpse inside. Amber light spilled out unevenly, catching glimpses of shadowed figures moving slowly through the small space. The low murmur of conversation drifted faintly through the air, promising warmth and shelter from the cold.
“It’s no palace,” Damien pointed out, “but it’ll keep the frost off, and you can find whatever tools you might need.” His tone was straightforward but carried a quiet curiosity, an invitation without pressure. His brows raised as he looked back at her. “If that sounds alright to you.”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
