i fell in love with a war
The room once again does that strange, slippery slide into bleary, washed-out watercolor and the familiar scenery shifts into a peaceful night. It's that pleasant kind of warm where the wind is enough to warm anyone out there, but not enough to drive thick drops of sweat down their bodies to ruin the peace. There's no hint of the Flowerbirth cold that slams against the doors to the real world, or intrusive blood-sucking bugs, or cloying humidity, or anything that would make it all less than perfect.
It all feels so real, a perfect moment frozen in time for them to share, and Casimir moves his head up to study the constellations. As far as he can tell, they're all accurate, but he's never been much of an expert on anything other than inflicting pain and messing up his life, so he couldn't say for certain. There's a part of him that's a touch surprise the ostentatious man in front of him chose such a subtle, straightforward scene; he had expended something like a lavish beach with several chairs under the sun for lounging, or some sort of architecture marvel he'd either concocted or wished to see. Still, alongside the surprise is something closer to fondness. For all his swagger and bravado and bluster, there was something subtle and shining and real to all of Thorn's show.
Under the light of the moon, Thorn's face glows just a little and he looks like he's waiting for something. The same thing he always wants from Casimir. And the bartender is filled so strongly with a fondness, here in the Longheat night under the stars and moon, when he could have put them anywhere else, that a short approving hum vibrates from his throat. It seems to float in front of him in the pleasant air, whisping towards the courtesan and landing in front of him like an offering. The moon grows just a little brighter, and in the sky, the constellations shift into something closer to the stars that hang over Torchline.
It all feels so real, a perfect moment frozen in time for them to share, and Casimir moves his head up to study the constellations. As far as he can tell, they're all accurate, but he's never been much of an expert on anything other than inflicting pain and messing up his life, so he couldn't say for certain. There's a part of him that's a touch surprise the ostentatious man in front of him chose such a subtle, straightforward scene; he had expended something like a lavish beach with several chairs under the sun for lounging, or some sort of architecture marvel he'd either concocted or wished to see. Still, alongside the surprise is something closer to fondness. For all his swagger and bravado and bluster, there was something subtle and shining and real to all of Thorn's show.
Under the light of the moon, Thorn's face glows just a little and he looks like he's waiting for something. The same thing he always wants from Casimir. And the bartender is filled so strongly with a fondness, here in the Longheat night under the stars and moon, when he could have put them anywhere else, that a short approving hum vibrates from his throat. It seems to float in front of him in the pleasant air, whisping towards the courtesan and landing in front of him like an offering. The moon grows just a little brighter, and in the sky, the constellations shift into something closer to the stars that hang over Torchline.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
