DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
The door swung heavily behind them, shutting out the worst of the wind. Inside, the workshop was warm in the way of places built to endure, heat radiating from a broad iron stove at the center. The air smelled faintly of smoke, pine shavings, and tanned hide. A handful of locals kept to their own corners: one man hunched over a length of wood, shaving curls from it with steady strokes of his blade, while a pair of women bent low over a workbench, stitching leather with quick, practiced motions. Their voices were low, indistinct, the background hum of people used to working through the long cold.
Damien steered them toward a table tucked against the wall, away from the main stove and the easy company of the others. The light there was dimmer, the surface scarred with years of use but solid beneath his hand. He pushed back his hood, rough hair dusted faintly with snow, and ran a gloved palm along the edge of the table as he claimed a seat. His eyes flicked to the little ursur padding in after Alys, then back to her with a faint crease of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s Damien,” he said simply, the introduction coming as a matter of courtesy rather than ceremony, "Damien Ulfsen." His voice carried enough to be heard but not enough to cut across the room.
He watched her unpack, his gaze settling briefly on the black fox pelts as he set the bundle before her, his eyes lifting again. “What are you hoping to make with it? A better coat?” The words had a wry edge.
The table bore what they’d need: scraps of cloth and leather, a scattering of needles and spools of thread, awls, clamps, and shears. Against the wall, a thick bar bristled with tools of every stripe, waiting for the next project. Damien sat back in his chair, leaving her space, his hands loose on his knees.
After a beat, curiosity won out over reserve. “You called yourself a seer,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “What does that mean, exactly? What do you.. see?” His tone was steady, without challenge, but his eyes didn’t waver from her face. A few of the others in the workshop shifted, their glances sharp but fleeting, pricked by the word more than the question. Damien didn’t so much as twitch under the weight of it. He kept his attention fixed squarely on her, content to let the background murmur carry on around them.
Damien steered them toward a table tucked against the wall, away from the main stove and the easy company of the others. The light there was dimmer, the surface scarred with years of use but solid beneath his hand. He pushed back his hood, rough hair dusted faintly with snow, and ran a gloved palm along the edge of the table as he claimed a seat. His eyes flicked to the little ursur padding in after Alys, then back to her with a faint crease of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s Damien,” he said simply, the introduction coming as a matter of courtesy rather than ceremony, "Damien Ulfsen." His voice carried enough to be heard but not enough to cut across the room.
He watched her unpack, his gaze settling briefly on the black fox pelts as he set the bundle before her, his eyes lifting again. “What are you hoping to make with it? A better coat?” The words had a wry edge.
The table bore what they’d need: scraps of cloth and leather, a scattering of needles and spools of thread, awls, clamps, and shears. Against the wall, a thick bar bristled with tools of every stripe, waiting for the next project. Damien sat back in his chair, leaving her space, his hands loose on his knees.
After a beat, curiosity won out over reserve. “You called yourself a seer,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “What does that mean, exactly? What do you.. see?” His tone was steady, without challenge, but his eyes didn’t waver from her face. A few of the others in the workshop shifted, their glances sharp but fleeting, pricked by the word more than the question. Damien didn’t so much as twitch under the weight of it. He kept his attention fixed squarely on her, content to let the background murmur carry on around them.
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
