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
The scrape of wheels across the sand came before him, though just barely. Damien’s arrival was quiet but unmistakable. A small cart, stacked with hammers, saws, nails, and planks, rolled steadily under his control, each item balanced with the careful precision of someone used to hauling far heavier loads in harsher conditions. His long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and sturdy canvas trousers bore the faint scuff of previous labor, and the leather boots on his feet crunched over the sand with each step. The morning sun caught on the metal of his tools, glinting faintly as he drew closer to the porch.
He set the cart down with a solid thud and ran a hand across his short, curly hair, letting out a quiet sigh. “Morning,” he said, nodding at Theea. With a more appraising look at the place, he said, "So this is all yours, huh?"
Damien caught wind and sight of Flora with Ronin and Remi as he set down some of the heavier tools, giving the trio a casual nod. He’d heard the names before, of course—demigods aren't really a secret in Caido—but he didn’t let it change how he worked. “Morning,” he said again, this time more generally, raising a hand to Flora as she waved.
“Figured Theea might need more than just a sledgehammer.” His eyes lingered for a moment on the tool she held, and a faint, amused look crossed his face, as if silently asking what’re you gonna do with that?
Damien set a hammer down for a moment, letting his eyes drift. Flora moved with effortless command, issuing instructions that were equal parts tease and authority, while Ronin and Remi carried themselves with that faintly uncanny ease of people who weren’t quite mortal. The sprouting lavender, the carefully arranged tools, the way they seemed to know exactly how to inhabit the morning—it all struck him as… different. He didn’t feel unwelcome, exactly, but he wasn’t sure what the “rules” were in this company. A small, quiet part of him noted the contrast. How strange it was, for all their easy confidence, that he was just Damien, plain and practical, and it was enough.
True to form, Damien let it all wash over him without comment, turning instead to what he knew best. The cider could wait until he'd earned it. He began organizing his supplies so everything would be within easy reach, laying out hammers, nails, and planks with methodical care. Even at a glance, he could see the tasks waiting for attention—the leaning stained-glass window, the battered furniture—but he didn’t rush. He’d start where he was needed most, letting Theea guide the crew while he quietly made himself useful.
He set the cart down with a solid thud and ran a hand across his short, curly hair, letting out a quiet sigh. “Morning,” he said, nodding at Theea. With a more appraising look at the place, he said, "So this is all yours, huh?"
Damien caught wind and sight of Flora with Ronin and Remi as he set down some of the heavier tools, giving the trio a casual nod. He’d heard the names before, of course—demigods aren't really a secret in Caido—but he didn’t let it change how he worked. “Morning,” he said again, this time more generally, raising a hand to Flora as she waved.
“Figured Theea might need more than just a sledgehammer.” His eyes lingered for a moment on the tool she held, and a faint, amused look crossed his face, as if silently asking what’re you gonna do with that?
Damien set a hammer down for a moment, letting his eyes drift. Flora moved with effortless command, issuing instructions that were equal parts tease and authority, while Ronin and Remi carried themselves with that faintly uncanny ease of people who weren’t quite mortal. The sprouting lavender, the carefully arranged tools, the way they seemed to know exactly how to inhabit the morning—it all struck him as… different. He didn’t feel unwelcome, exactly, but he wasn’t sure what the “rules” were in this company. A small, quiet part of him noted the contrast. How strange it was, for all their easy confidence, that he was just Damien, plain and practical, and it was enough.
True to form, Damien let it all wash over him without comment, turning instead to what he knew best. The cider could wait until he'd earned it. He began organizing his supplies so everything would be within easy reach, laying out hammers, nails, and planks with methodical care. Even at a glance, he could see the tasks waiting for attention—the leaning stained-glass window, the battered furniture—but he didn’t rush. He’d start where he was needed most, letting Theea guide the crew while he quietly made himself useful.
