i'm a thinker, not a talker
Casimir assists Thorn to shuffle into the little room eyes adjusting to the dark and then the light. Upon seeing it, it immediately reminds Casimir so strongly of Thorn that he feels like he's intruding on something private, a diary entry or the inside of a locket. It's homey and broken in-to, radiating comfort. Casimir had half-expected some palace room filled with jewels, expensive gifts from lovers, and a four-poster bed covered in expensive silks, but instead, it's just a comfortable room Casimir could see calling Thorn a home.
His own room, almost right underneath Thorn's, is just a bed and a dresser and a little bathroom, and if someone were to wander into it right now, they'd think it was just a spare left empty for anyone who needed to stay the night. Not a hint of Casimir resides in it -- save for Casimir himself -- not like this room, where everything soft and beautiful looked like it had been touched by Thorn's delicate hands.
The bartender would have expected the courtesan to make a beeline for the shower, as grimy and exhausted he was, but he follows Thorn's gaze to his bed and sets him down there gently. The endless pillows and blankets seem to envelope where his body graces it, reaching for him like it missed their courtesan as badly as he undoubtedly missed them.
Casimir looks at the scene with something like fondness deep in those hardened slate eyes, though he smothers it quickly and turns towards the bathroom before Thorn can see the slight blush rising on his cheeks. He doesn't get to look at Thorn fondly, not after what he did. Instead, he makes the few steps to the bathroom and hunts down a washcloth, wetting it with warm water and returning to press it into the courtesan's hand. There's no contact there, Casimir withdrawing his hand before that dreaded, all-encompassing spark could pass their hands, and once it arrives safely in Thorn's grip he retreats to guarding the door.
He looks half-ready to run, as he always does, but swallowed within Thorn's home and territory, he bears a remarkable resemblance to a spider under a cup. Glancing at the door and then Thorn, he wonders how long the courtesan will tolerate him intruding in his space, and wonders if he leaves now if he could find his way to Halo by morning.
His own room, almost right underneath Thorn's, is just a bed and a dresser and a little bathroom, and if someone were to wander into it right now, they'd think it was just a spare left empty for anyone who needed to stay the night. Not a hint of Casimir resides in it -- save for Casimir himself -- not like this room, where everything soft and beautiful looked like it had been touched by Thorn's delicate hands.
The bartender would have expected the courtesan to make a beeline for the shower, as grimy and exhausted he was, but he follows Thorn's gaze to his bed and sets him down there gently. The endless pillows and blankets seem to envelope where his body graces it, reaching for him like it missed their courtesan as badly as he undoubtedly missed them.
Casimir looks at the scene with something like fondness deep in those hardened slate eyes, though he smothers it quickly and turns towards the bathroom before Thorn can see the slight blush rising on his cheeks. He doesn't get to look at Thorn fondly, not after what he did. Instead, he makes the few steps to the bathroom and hunts down a washcloth, wetting it with warm water and returning to press it into the courtesan's hand. There's no contact there, Casimir withdrawing his hand before that dreaded, all-encompassing spark could pass their hands, and once it arrives safely in Thorn's grip he retreats to guarding the door.
He looks half-ready to run, as he always does, but swallowed within Thorn's home and territory, he bears a remarkable resemblance to a spider under a cup. Glancing at the door and then Thorn, he wonders how long the courtesan will tolerate him intruding in his space, and wonders if he leaves now if he could find his way to Halo by morning.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
