Damien
there's some good in this
world worth fighting for
world worth fighting for
Damien smirked faintly at Ronin’s grin, shaking his head. “Safe fighting. That’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear.” Still, there wasn’t a trace of mockery in his tone. If anything, the words carried a quiet appreciation. He knew too well what it was to fight without nets, without rules. The idea of giving people a place to learn without bleeding [too much] for it made a kind of sense he could respect.
Damien slowed as the cart came to a stop, his dark eyes climbing the sagging lines of the roof, the splintered beams, the gaps where weather and time had chewed through. He shifted the bag of beans against his side, weighing the place like he might a pile of firewood—deciding what was sound, what needed cutting, and what wasn’t worth saving at all. Aria circled the threshold with the boldness of a scout, nose pressed to fallen plaster and broken wood, tail flicking high like she was proud of her discovery.
“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out,” Damien remarked at last. His tone wasn’t dismissive, only practical, his gaze still moving over the derelict frame. “But it’ll stand again with the right repairs.” He glanced back to Ronin, expression even, but there was a spark of intent in it still. “I’ve spent near half my life building and fixing cabins. Could lend a hand, if you need it. Roof like that won’t take long with two men instead of one.”
He adjusted his grip on the coffee again, then nodded toward the broken rafters, a faint curl at the corner of his mouth. “Suppose it’s fitting, though. Tear it down, build it stronger.” Like training.
Damien slowed as the cart came to a stop, his dark eyes climbing the sagging lines of the roof, the splintered beams, the gaps where weather and time had chewed through. He shifted the bag of beans against his side, weighing the place like he might a pile of firewood—deciding what was sound, what needed cutting, and what wasn’t worth saving at all. Aria circled the threshold with the boldness of a scout, nose pressed to fallen plaster and broken wood, tail flicking high like she was proud of her discovery.
“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out,” Damien remarked at last. His tone wasn’t dismissive, only practical, his gaze still moving over the derelict frame. “But it’ll stand again with the right repairs.” He glanced back to Ronin, expression even, but there was a spark of intent in it still. “I’ve spent near half my life building and fixing cabins. Could lend a hand, if you need it. Roof like that won’t take long with two men instead of one.”
He adjusted his grip on the coffee again, then nodded toward the broken rafters, a faint curl at the corner of his mouth. “Suppose it’s fitting, though. Tear it down, build it stronger.” Like training.
