i'm a thinker, not a talker
In the days after That Night, as Casimir had avoided calling it in his head, Thorn's absence hit him like a blade extracted from a bleeding and wounded gut. He had dragged himself out of bed the next day prepared to have to evade Thorn, outrun and outfight his own feelings of horrible guilt and disgust with himself and still hold strong against the onslaught that would the gentle look in his eyes and the downset curve of his mouth. Thorn hadn't been there, though, hadn't been lounging on the bar like he's so like to do or poking fun at the other courtesans or using his wiles to allow a patron to fall in love with him and follow his beckoning finger up the stairs.
Casimir's glower in the following days had been more poisonous than usual, eyes flinty and hard and communicating less than it was somehow even possible to do. Everyone gave him a wide berth, and when a customer ordered a drink, it would land brusquely and silently in front of them accompanied by the least friendly-looking bartender they have the misfortune of encountering. The going rumor was that he had killed someone, and the second-most-whispered theory being that his underground fighting ring (which he totally, definitely had) had been broken up by Sunjata.
None of it mattered. With Thorn gone, he didn't have to worry about fleeing, and if the man did return, he'd shift into a spider and skitter the hell away for good.
It's another dark, freezing day in King's End, the warm lights of the House of Midnight providing the only warmth around for miles. The night was busy and bustling, the fireplace roaring, and Casimir stood his typical post behind the bar. He really was trying not to look "murderously unapproachable," as one of the other bartenders cracked before retreating a safe distance, and likely not succeeding, as everyone who ordered a drink from him collected it and moved elsewhere for their conversation. There were no courtesans in sheer clothing and dappled in twisting shackled vines hanging on his bar, poking the stony bartender for any kind of reaction. There were no sounds of laughter, no heads thrown back in delight, no seafoam eyes looking at him.
It was for the best. Thorn had figured out what he was and he had left. It is for the best. Casimir's hands mechanically dry off a set of glasses while his mind wanders into the blissful nothing that came from hours of mindlessly working his job.
Casimir's glower in the following days had been more poisonous than usual, eyes flinty and hard and communicating less than it was somehow even possible to do. Everyone gave him a wide berth, and when a customer ordered a drink, it would land brusquely and silently in front of them accompanied by the least friendly-looking bartender they have the misfortune of encountering. The going rumor was that he had killed someone, and the second-most-whispered theory being that his underground fighting ring (which he totally, definitely had) had been broken up by Sunjata.
None of it mattered. With Thorn gone, he didn't have to worry about fleeing, and if the man did return, he'd shift into a spider and skitter the hell away for good.
It's another dark, freezing day in King's End, the warm lights of the House of Midnight providing the only warmth around for miles. The night was busy and bustling, the fireplace roaring, and Casimir stood his typical post behind the bar. He really was trying not to look "murderously unapproachable," as one of the other bartenders cracked before retreating a safe distance, and likely not succeeding, as everyone who ordered a drink from him collected it and moved elsewhere for their conversation. There were no courtesans in sheer clothing and dappled in twisting shackled vines hanging on his bar, poking the stony bartender for any kind of reaction. There were no sounds of laughter, no heads thrown back in delight, no seafoam eyes looking at him.
It was for the best. Thorn had figured out what he was and he had left. It is for the best. Casimir's hands mechanically dry off a set of glasses while his mind wanders into the blissful nothing that came from hours of mindlessly working his job.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
