Damien
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones
try to forget all them enemies and debts
try to forget all them enemies and debts
Damien shifts on the driftwood as he lifts dark brown sunglasses to shade eyes tired from squinting against the sun. When Flora’s voice drifts over the shore, a faint curve tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's part surprise, part reluctant amusement.
He watches her approach, noting how the breeze toys with the loose hem of her shirt, how the sunlight catches the gold in her curls, and the lazy arcs her small dragon traces overhead. There’s an effortless grace about her here. It makes him respect her a little more. Being comfortable in one’s skin was a rare thing. “I’m still not used to the heat, but it seems like it suits you,” he replies, voice steady.
Dusting sand from his pants, he rises and steps closer, hesitating for a moment as he's caught between offering a hand and bowing. Instead, he extends his arm toward the driftwood log beside him, a silent invitation to sit.
Removing his sunglasses, his gaze sharpens as he turns serious. “About last time... I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” he says, watching her closely for any sign of offense. He didn't offer excuses for himself, just, “I hope I didn’t come off the wrong way.” He doesn’t pretend to fully understand the quiet command she carries—how a queen could hold a room without theatrics—but he respects it deeply. “If I did, I want to make it right.” There’s a quiet confidence in his tone, as if he’s certain he can.
His eyes flick briefly down the coast, to the heavy bundles of timber still being stacked near the shore, then return to her. “I double-checked the Greenwing’s load. It’s enough for the solarium, the secret rooms, and those foundation reinforcements you mentioned. I don’t take plans lightly. Especially a queen’s.” The words carry weight, not mockery or deference, but something steadier. Respect earned, and quietly given.
He watches her approach, noting how the breeze toys with the loose hem of her shirt, how the sunlight catches the gold in her curls, and the lazy arcs her small dragon traces overhead. There’s an effortless grace about her here. It makes him respect her a little more. Being comfortable in one’s skin was a rare thing. “I’m still not used to the heat, but it seems like it suits you,” he replies, voice steady.
Dusting sand from his pants, he rises and steps closer, hesitating for a moment as he's caught between offering a hand and bowing. Instead, he extends his arm toward the driftwood log beside him, a silent invitation to sit.
Removing his sunglasses, his gaze sharpens as he turns serious. “About last time... I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” he says, watching her closely for any sign of offense. He didn't offer excuses for himself, just, “I hope I didn’t come off the wrong way.” He doesn’t pretend to fully understand the quiet command she carries—how a queen could hold a room without theatrics—but he respects it deeply. “If I did, I want to make it right.” There’s a quiet confidence in his tone, as if he’s certain he can.
His eyes flick briefly down the coast, to the heavy bundles of timber still being stacked near the shore, then return to her. “I double-checked the Greenwing’s load. It’s enough for the solarium, the secret rooms, and those foundation reinforcements you mentioned. I don’t take plans lightly. Especially a queen’s.” The words carry weight, not mockery or deference, but something steadier. Respect earned, and quietly given.
