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 listens without interruption, gaze tracking the dragon’s slow, sure spirals overhead. Spice’s pale wings cut bright arcs through the blue, catching sun like salt spray on steel. The story earns a slow incline of his head, not quite reverence but respect for the survival, maybe, or for the fact Flora tells it plain without gilding it.
“She's lucky your dad found her,” he says at last, voice low enough to blend with the hiss of the tide. Curiosity lingers in the glance he gives her, as though he’s taking mental measure of her world and its reach. “Guess she decided you were the better companion,” he says, voice low, a hint of wry humor threading through.
He adjusts his stride to match hers along the waterline, the firm sand cool under his boots where the waves have pulled back. A breeze slips in off the ocean, carrying salt and the faint tang of something floral; some seaweed just starting to dry on the rocks up ahead. The sun presses warm against his back, a steady counter to the water’s cool bite at his ankles when the spray catches him.
He pushes his sunglasses a touch higher on the bridge of his nose before looking forward again, tracking the curve of the beach where pale driftwood lies scattered like bones. “So…” The word is drawn out just enough to tilt it toward humor without undercutting the genuine ask. “Where exactly are you taking me? I’d like to know whether I’m walking into a tavern or a trap.” His tone is dry, but the smirk at the edge of his mouth keeps it easy.
“She's lucky your dad found her,” he says at last, voice low enough to blend with the hiss of the tide. Curiosity lingers in the glance he gives her, as though he’s taking mental measure of her world and its reach. “Guess she decided you were the better companion,” he says, voice low, a hint of wry humor threading through.
He adjusts his stride to match hers along the waterline, the firm sand cool under his boots where the waves have pulled back. A breeze slips in off the ocean, carrying salt and the faint tang of something floral; some seaweed just starting to dry on the rocks up ahead. The sun presses warm against his back, a steady counter to the water’s cool bite at his ankles when the spray catches him.
He pushes his sunglasses a touch higher on the bridge of his nose before looking forward again, tracking the curve of the beach where pale driftwood lies scattered like bones. “So…” The word is drawn out just enough to tilt it toward humor without undercutting the genuine ask. “Where exactly are you taking me? I’d like to know whether I’m walking into a tavern or a trap.” His tone is dry, but the smirk at the edge of his mouth keeps it easy.
