i fell in love with a war
The look shining from Thorn's shifting eyes is one Casimir is all-too familiar with, having become intimately acquainted with hundreds of people drinking hundreds of drinks poured by his steady hand. The other man's gaze is loose and slippery, and seems to dance from eye-to-eye as he looks, like he's forgotten exactly how to look straight ahead to meet someone else's eyes. Casimir could laugh at the question spilled from Thorn's clearly loose tongue -- or scoff more accurately -- but he does neither, choosing instead to continue his level gaze flat, unimpressed, and just a touch cold.
It's not an unfamiliar question. Many have come to the House of Midnight asked if the bartender were on the menu, and learned very quickly that he would make for poor conversation and even worse company. He had even heard it from the other workers here, curious courtesans and interested bartenders. He may have even heard it once or twice from a teasing Thorn, looking to see if that would be the question that finally broke through the bartender's cool disinterest. As Casimir studies the sloshed, swaying form of the courtesan, he can't quite configure why the question comes to him now.
Thorn doesn't seem to be flirting, at least not in the way he usually does, open and bawdy and unserious. He's too drunk to have any hidden motive, and if he did have one, Casimir would expect it to fall from his hands and land on the counter with an obvious sound. It almost seems genuinely curious, and paired with Thorn's tilted head, a wave of being beheld sweeps through the still bartender. Thorn looks at him too intensely, like he's trying to read his thoughts. He's curious and open and seems fascinated by something, and Casimir feels a sliver of something like fear.
His gaze grows cold, eyes shuttering slightly into a shape just next to a glare. It's not quite a warning, not yet, but it's the warning of a warning. Thorn is waving his ringed fingers too close to an open flame, looking to see if it'll burn. Jaw tightening slightly, Casimir feeds his silence. The more Thorn moves and sways, Casimir stills in an inverse. And, of course, he does not reply. He hopes the silence stings.
It's not an unfamiliar question. Many have come to the House of Midnight asked if the bartender were on the menu, and learned very quickly that he would make for poor conversation and even worse company. He had even heard it from the other workers here, curious courtesans and interested bartenders. He may have even heard it once or twice from a teasing Thorn, looking to see if that would be the question that finally broke through the bartender's cool disinterest. As Casimir studies the sloshed, swaying form of the courtesan, he can't quite configure why the question comes to him now.
Thorn doesn't seem to be flirting, at least not in the way he usually does, open and bawdy and unserious. He's too drunk to have any hidden motive, and if he did have one, Casimir would expect it to fall from his hands and land on the counter with an obvious sound. It almost seems genuinely curious, and paired with Thorn's tilted head, a wave of being beheld sweeps through the still bartender. Thorn looks at him too intensely, like he's trying to read his thoughts. He's curious and open and seems fascinated by something, and Casimir feels a sliver of something like fear.
His gaze grows cold, eyes shuttering slightly into a shape just next to a glare. It's not quite a warning, not yet, but it's the warning of a warning. Thorn is waving his ringed fingers too close to an open flame, looking to see if it'll burn. Jaw tightening slightly, Casimir feeds his silence. The more Thorn moves and sways, Casimir stills in an inverse. And, of course, he does not reply. He hopes the silence stings.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
