Damien
there's some good in this
world worth fighting for
world worth fighting for
The package of coffee beans pressed against his ribs, paper crackling faintly as he adjusted it under one arm. Damien had bartered for it not half an hour ago, still sharp with the earthy scent that marked Torchline’s markets apart from anything Halo could grow. Aria padded at his side, her nose twitching with every burst of spice or fish that wafted out from the stalls, but her attention snagged on something else first: the painted sack with its clumsy X-eyed face. She froze mid-step, ears pricked, as though this sad-eyed effigy might leap out at them.
Damien’s gaze followed hers, narrowing on the cart and the man standing over it. He recognized the face, though not the circumstance. Theea’s house, the repairs, that was where he’d seen Ronin—bare-armed, competent. He slowed, shifting the coffee against his side as though comparing one odd parcel to the other. Coffee, scarecrow. The coffee was a familiar habit, a necessity. The scarecrow was something else entirely. It was a curiosity, a half-made thing sitting in a cart of mismatched parts. Not a scarecrow, he realized, but a training dummy from the look of it; a strawman built for a beating, not for scaring birds.
Damien stopped a few feet away, close enough that the quiet felt purposeful. His gaze drifted from the half-made dummy to the man standing over the handcart, and he let the name fall from his lips, quiet and uncertain.
"Hey. Ronin, right?" he said. His voice was low, rough — a throat carved by the cold. He glanced at the cart once more. "Not much fight in that one. But I guess that's the point, isn't it?" Beside him, Aria crept closer, circling with her belly low, her tufted tail flicking.
Damien’s gaze followed hers, narrowing on the cart and the man standing over it. He recognized the face, though not the circumstance. Theea’s house, the repairs, that was where he’d seen Ronin—bare-armed, competent. He slowed, shifting the coffee against his side as though comparing one odd parcel to the other. Coffee, scarecrow. The coffee was a familiar habit, a necessity. The scarecrow was something else entirely. It was a curiosity, a half-made thing sitting in a cart of mismatched parts. Not a scarecrow, he realized, but a training dummy from the look of it; a strawman built for a beating, not for scaring birds.
Damien stopped a few feet away, close enough that the quiet felt purposeful. His gaze drifted from the half-made dummy to the man standing over the handcart, and he let the name fall from his lips, quiet and uncertain.
"Hey. Ronin, right?" he said. His voice was low, rough — a throat carved by the cold. He glanced at the cart once more. "Not much fight in that one. But I guess that's the point, isn't it?" Beside him, Aria crept closer, circling with her belly low, her tufted tail flicking.
