last couple of months kinda been a disaster
Thorn brightens a touch as she sets her mug down and comments on his line of work, even if the hidden brow does lift when she says it’s more respectable than her old career. It only intrigues him more - ever a man searching to hear the stories of those around him, his mind a library of experiences and events that weren’t of his own but ones he could imagine or recall.
She leans in and he remains steady like a pillar, his sea foam gaze trailing the spark of lightning that trails down her arm again, a fleeting static that’s there and gone in the blink of an eye. Her quiet, lowered voice, for him alone sparks a twitch of a smile on the corners of his lips, watching as she leans back again and he catches the glimmer in her gaze from the flickering lantern light. “I’d say that’s respectable.” But then again, Thorn’s morals weren’t exactly perfect. “A messenger, though? Sounds nice. Lots’ve travelin’, seein’ new places.” He hums thoughtfully, before he quiets himself to prep for Ashe’s origin.
And he’s very interested in her answer, despite the way he aims not to be. He watches her with a certain kind of stillness that sparks of hope and curiosity. And when she mentions she’s an outlander, his gaze widens a fraction before he lets the honey silk laugh slip past his lips. “That makes sense. At least ya didn’t get completely messed up, though I’m sure that was… Tough. Leavin’ what ya knew.” His head tilts to the left then to the right, as if mulling over what he wants to say.
It doesn’t come out as she continues, though, looking past him with a kind of careful thoughtfulness. Nostalgia, perhaps? Or uncertainty? But she flashes that faint smile back at him and he finds he understands quite a bit. “Hey, at least you’re tryin’. Steps are better than wallowin’. I’ve done that a few too many times.” The laugh that leaves him is lighter but breathes of truth.
It’s cut short with the faint whisper that reaches his ears, one that sounds markedly like his father in a rage. He pales instantly, all of his suave charm suddenly vanishing like a glamour as he glances back over his shoulder only to spot the motes of light hanging by the boughs of the trees on the edge. Hissing out a curse, he rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, immediately reaching after for a full glass of something stronger. “Fuckin’ will-o-wisps.” He flashes a small apologetic smile her way before he downs the glass.
She leans in and he remains steady like a pillar, his sea foam gaze trailing the spark of lightning that trails down her arm again, a fleeting static that’s there and gone in the blink of an eye. Her quiet, lowered voice, for him alone sparks a twitch of a smile on the corners of his lips, watching as she leans back again and he catches the glimmer in her gaze from the flickering lantern light. “I’d say that’s respectable.” But then again, Thorn’s morals weren’t exactly perfect. “A messenger, though? Sounds nice. Lots’ve travelin’, seein’ new places.” He hums thoughtfully, before he quiets himself to prep for Ashe’s origin.
And he’s very interested in her answer, despite the way he aims not to be. He watches her with a certain kind of stillness that sparks of hope and curiosity. And when she mentions she’s an outlander, his gaze widens a fraction before he lets the honey silk laugh slip past his lips. “That makes sense. At least ya didn’t get completely messed up, though I’m sure that was… Tough. Leavin’ what ya knew.” His head tilts to the left then to the right, as if mulling over what he wants to say.
It doesn’t come out as she continues, though, looking past him with a kind of careful thoughtfulness. Nostalgia, perhaps? Or uncertainty? But she flashes that faint smile back at him and he finds he understands quite a bit. “Hey, at least you’re tryin’. Steps are better than wallowin’. I’ve done that a few too many times.” The laugh that leaves him is lighter but breathes of truth.
It’s cut short with the faint whisper that reaches his ears, one that sounds markedly like his father in a rage. He pales instantly, all of his suave charm suddenly vanishing like a glamour as he glances back over his shoulder only to spot the motes of light hanging by the boughs of the trees on the edge. Hissing out a curse, he rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, immediately reaching after for a full glass of something stronger. “Fuckin’ will-o-wisps.” He flashes a small apologetic smile her way before he downs the glass.
Hawthorn
tell all my friends i'm asleep if they ask ya
