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 takes the offered glass, turning it in his hand as if inspecting the carved symbols was part of some serious evaluation. The sun glints sharp along the rim, catching against his thumb before he finally tips the glass back in one smooth motion. The rum hits fast — bright, clean, with none of the muddled heaviness he’s come to expect from strong drink. It spreads like fire without burn, flooding through him with a buzz so sharp and exhilarating that for half a breath he thinks he might laugh out loud. Instead, he exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening, like he’s holding back something private.
When the rush steadies, his lips twitch once at the corner. “...Not bad,” he says, far too casually, lowering the glass like it’s just another drink. He rolls his shoulders once as though working out a kink, when in reality it’s the sharp, impossible clarity still rattling through his blood. “Bit light on the finish, though. Halo whiskey would’ve lasted longer.” The faint smirk betrays him just enough, the kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He sets the glass carefully on the fountain’s ledge, eyes flicking to hers with the deliberate calm of someone pretending nothing just rocked their world. “But I’ll give it this much—it doesn’t taste like something that could strip paint. Which makes it a rare breed around here, I imagine.”
His gaze drifts to the fountain itself, tracing the carved mermaids with a thoughtful squint, then out to the port where the masts bob in the salt-hazed distance. Music coils between the gull cries and the pitch-heavy air, threads of fiddle and drum weaving bright across the docks. “You really built all this to give people luck?” he asks finally, his tone balanced on the line between disbelief and grudging respect. A slow shake of his head follows. “Torchline doesn’t do anything halfway, does it.”
There’s no real judgment in it, more an observation — the kind of dry, restrained comment that gives her space to run with the story if she wanted to, while the faint lift at his mouth betrays his amusement. His hand lingers on the empty glass, thumb running once along the carved edge before he glances sidelong at her, adding with low humor: “Suppose I’ll need another round, just to be sure my review’s fair.”
When the rush steadies, his lips twitch once at the corner. “...Not bad,” he says, far too casually, lowering the glass like it’s just another drink. He rolls his shoulders once as though working out a kink, when in reality it’s the sharp, impossible clarity still rattling through his blood. “Bit light on the finish, though. Halo whiskey would’ve lasted longer.” The faint smirk betrays him just enough, the kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He sets the glass carefully on the fountain’s ledge, eyes flicking to hers with the deliberate calm of someone pretending nothing just rocked their world. “But I’ll give it this much—it doesn’t taste like something that could strip paint. Which makes it a rare breed around here, I imagine.”
His gaze drifts to the fountain itself, tracing the carved mermaids with a thoughtful squint, then out to the port where the masts bob in the salt-hazed distance. Music coils between the gull cries and the pitch-heavy air, threads of fiddle and drum weaving bright across the docks. “You really built all this to give people luck?” he asks finally, his tone balanced on the line between disbelief and grudging respect. A slow shake of his head follows. “Torchline doesn’t do anything halfway, does it.”
There’s no real judgment in it, more an observation — the kind of dry, restrained comment that gives her space to run with the story if she wanted to, while the faint lift at his mouth betrays his amusement. His hand lingers on the empty glass, thumb running once along the carved edge before he glances sidelong at her, adding with low humor: “Suppose I’ll need another round, just to be sure my review’s fair.”
