I will be your lighthouse
He has to remind himself a few times that he'd still won. Despite not singing out a farmer's dog's name and being able to flaunt a board with a chain of five stickers on it, he had traded her something far better: continued time in her company. However, the competitive streak in him is sorely sulking in response to every strut she takes thereafter, balancing on the high of her victory with an expert heel. It's everything he can do not to roll his eyes a time or two, and it's definitely nothing related to being hangry either. Though his stomach nearly separates from his body while they're in line, the smell of the tacos almost doing him in. He might have clambered over the counter and into the kitchen if it took a mintue longer.
"That looks ideal," he agrees, glancing towards the picnic arrangement she's found. There is a blessedly lacking amount of melting down children and questionable adults near it, making the spot even better. He places their two hibiscus teas down before threading his legs between table and bench, mindful of the rocky edges and how they might scrape someone careless when they sit or stand. "Ghost stories??" he says beneath the rise of his eyebrows, already in the process of sweeping his umbrella hat off and putting it beside him.
The surprise at her suggestion is short lived, taken in stride like he expects little more from her choices. Best just to roll with it sometimes rather than ask. "Alright then," he muses, sliding a taco towards him with all the grace of a big cat swiping the meat a keeper offers over the fence. "We need some atmosphere for proper spooky," he asserts, biting through half the taco in once. That golden thread that connects him to his ability shimmers as it's pulled, and in-between them a small flame appears into life, bowing to and fro. It's shaped into a small, ominous skull, the mouth moving as it talks quietly to them with every rolling spark. "I can slide it under our faces when we tell the story." For the dramatic shadows, of course. The fire burns a rich red in response, cool as flame can be. "Who goes first?" The rest of the taco vanishes. Spooky.
"That looks ideal," he agrees, glancing towards the picnic arrangement she's found. There is a blessedly lacking amount of melting down children and questionable adults near it, making the spot even better. He places their two hibiscus teas down before threading his legs between table and bench, mindful of the rocky edges and how they might scrape someone careless when they sit or stand. "Ghost stories??" he says beneath the rise of his eyebrows, already in the process of sweeping his umbrella hat off and putting it beside him.
The surprise at her suggestion is short lived, taken in stride like he expects little more from her choices. Best just to roll with it sometimes rather than ask. "Alright then," he muses, sliding a taco towards him with all the grace of a big cat swiping the meat a keeper offers over the fence. "We need some atmosphere for proper spooky," he asserts, biting through half the taco in once. That golden thread that connects him to his ability shimmers as it's pulled, and in-between them a small flame appears into life, bowing to and fro. It's shaped into a small, ominous skull, the mouth moving as it talks quietly to them with every rolling spark. "I can slide it under our faces when we tell the story." For the dramatic shadows, of course. The fire burns a rich red in response, cool as flame can be. "Who goes first?" The rest of the taco vanishes. Spooky.
Iskra
