Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
Damien finally wrangled the red pup back onto its leash. He let out a low, tired breath that carried more exasperation than frustration. “Don’t think they’ve got names yet. I’m just babysitting for a while until their new home is ready.” His voice was rough from the cold and from chasing after two creatures that clearly had more energy than he did this morning.
The gray one, apparently sensing a softer target, flopped dramatically onto its back against Nova’s legs, belly exposed in complete surrender. The little howl it let out the moment her hand pulled away was almost theatrical, like a plea for more attention, and Damien couldn’t help but note the contrast to the usual roughness of life here. He hesitated, unwilling to reach around her and risk interrupting what looked like a rare moment of joy.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, holding another leash out to her, “would you put this on him? He’s likely to run off if I try.” His tone was dry, but there was an unspoken hope that she’d take the reins—literally and figuratively—for this brief moment of chaos.
As he watched her interact with the pup, Damien’s gaze drifted upward, catching again on the shock of her jacket and the wild splash of rainbow that was her leggings. It was a jarring contrast to the pale, muted tones of Snowcloak; the subdued browns and grays of fur and timber, the pale hue of the cold sky. He wondered, not without a hint of guarded curiosity, what brought someone so vividly out of place to this edge of the wilds.
“Not often we get folks dressed like you around here,” he said quietly, voice steady but carrying the weight of someone who’s seen too many strangers come and go. “What brings you to Snowcloak?”
He paused, then added with the barest hint of formality, “I’m Damien, by the way..”
The words hung in the cold air, more an offering than a question, as the gray pup nudged the woman's hand again, demanding the affection that seemed to have immediately won it over. Damien shifted his weight, his wild-eyed, half-exhausted look softening just enough to show he was willing to see where this unexpected meeting might lead.
The gray one, apparently sensing a softer target, flopped dramatically onto its back against Nova’s legs, belly exposed in complete surrender. The little howl it let out the moment her hand pulled away was almost theatrical, like a plea for more attention, and Damien couldn’t help but note the contrast to the usual roughness of life here. He hesitated, unwilling to reach around her and risk interrupting what looked like a rare moment of joy.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, holding another leash out to her, “would you put this on him? He’s likely to run off if I try.” His tone was dry, but there was an unspoken hope that she’d take the reins—literally and figuratively—for this brief moment of chaos.
As he watched her interact with the pup, Damien’s gaze drifted upward, catching again on the shock of her jacket and the wild splash of rainbow that was her leggings. It was a jarring contrast to the pale, muted tones of Snowcloak; the subdued browns and grays of fur and timber, the pale hue of the cold sky. He wondered, not without a hint of guarded curiosity, what brought someone so vividly out of place to this edge of the wilds.
“Not often we get folks dressed like you around here,” he said quietly, voice steady but carrying the weight of someone who’s seen too many strangers come and go. “What brings you to Snowcloak?”
He paused, then added with the barest hint of formality, “I’m Damien, by the way..”
The words hung in the cold air, more an offering than a question, as the gray pup nudged the woman's hand again, demanding the affection that seemed to have immediately won it over. Damien shifted his weight, his wild-eyed, half-exhausted look softening just enough to show he was willing to see where this unexpected meeting might lead.
