Damien
the horrors persist
but the wonders prevail
but the wonders prevail
Damien wasn’t used to people smiling when a predator cub wrapped around their ankles. Most folks in Halo would’ve been halfway up a tree by now, swearing about claws and teeth and the kind of trouble a man had no business raising under his roof. But Lena just grinned, calm as summer, while her… whatever that was—an abominable snowball, apparently—hovered overhead shrieking like it was announcing the end of days.
The sound made Aria flinch, ears flattening tight to her head. She chirped a startled note, darted a step back behind Damien’s boots, then peeked out again with wide eyes—half wary, half tempted to try and confront the strange, floating rival.
Damien blinked up at it, lips twitching despite himself. “That one yours?” he asked, voice rough with travel but edged in wry disbelief. “Don't think I've seen anything like it before. Loud little bastard.” He glanced down at Aria, then back up at Mittens, who looked like it might try to swallow one of them whole, and let out an amused huff.
He shifted the crate higher in his grip, freeing one hand to take hers. His palm was calloused, roughened by years of rope and wood and crossbow string. His shake was firm without clenching her hand.
“Damien Ulfsen. This is Aria. We're from Halo. She's an orphan, only a few months old but I've been keeping her alive on milk and meat…” His jaw flexed as though the words cost him something. Pride was hard to shed, even when the truth was obvious. “I don't want her to just survive, I'd like for her to thrive. But I know more about hunting animals than I do raising them. So... figured if anyone could tell me how not to screw it up, it’d be the one running a place like this.”
The crate shifted in his hands again, offered forward as a gift or maybe a trade. Inside, a bundle of dried caribou strips wrapped in waxed cloth, and beside them two small pots of stubborn little plants: Arctic wormwood, pale-leaved and bitter, good for fevers and bad guts; and mountain sorrel, green and sharp, a taste of spring in the cold months. “Didn’t seem right to come asking for advice empty-handed,” he explained simply, watching her face to see if the offering landed.
The sound made Aria flinch, ears flattening tight to her head. She chirped a startled note, darted a step back behind Damien’s boots, then peeked out again with wide eyes—half wary, half tempted to try and confront the strange, floating rival.
Damien blinked up at it, lips twitching despite himself. “That one yours?” he asked, voice rough with travel but edged in wry disbelief. “Don't think I've seen anything like it before. Loud little bastard.” He glanced down at Aria, then back up at Mittens, who looked like it might try to swallow one of them whole, and let out an amused huff.
He shifted the crate higher in his grip, freeing one hand to take hers. His palm was calloused, roughened by years of rope and wood and crossbow string. His shake was firm without clenching her hand.
“Damien Ulfsen. This is Aria. We're from Halo. She's an orphan, only a few months old but I've been keeping her alive on milk and meat…” His jaw flexed as though the words cost him something. Pride was hard to shed, even when the truth was obvious. “I don't want her to just survive, I'd like for her to thrive. But I know more about hunting animals than I do raising them. So... figured if anyone could tell me how not to screw it up, it’d be the one running a place like this.”
The crate shifted in his hands again, offered forward as a gift or maybe a trade. Inside, a bundle of dried caribou strips wrapped in waxed cloth, and beside them two small pots of stubborn little plants: Arctic wormwood, pale-leaved and bitter, good for fevers and bad guts; and mountain sorrel, green and sharp, a taste of spring in the cold months. “Didn’t seem right to come asking for advice empty-handed,” he explained simply, watching her face to see if the offering landed.
