MILO
now they're standing in the door
singin' "that's my shit, that's my shit"
singin' "that's my shit, that's my shit"
“’Course. The docks are where the ships come in.” He flashes her his best winning smile, filing her name away for later. “Sailin’ is fine an’ all. Gets a bit borin’ after a bit with nothin’ to do but look at the water.” He offers with a huff of laughter, a shake of his head.
But he follows her gaze out to the Hels, spying the one that seems to be hurt. Red brows furrow, a small nod given to her that he sees it too. “Musta been hurt in the storm?” He suggests, perfectly content to let it remain hurt, likely to become a cloud wyrm’s meal. But something about the way Amalia’s intrigue is given, makes Milo think otherwise. “We can help it if ya want?” He asks, boldly reaching out to grab her hand and tug her along down the beach toward the Hels, using his other hand to summon his own hel, something to guide the bird to the beach as a support system.
But he follows her gaze out to the Hels, spying the one that seems to be hurt. Red brows furrow, a small nod given to her that he sees it too. “Musta been hurt in the storm?” He suggests, perfectly content to let it remain hurt, likely to become a cloud wyrm’s meal. But something about the way Amalia’s intrigue is given, makes Milo think otherwise. “We can help it if ya want?” He asks, boldly reaching out to grab her hand and tug her along down the beach toward the Hels, using his other hand to summon his own hel, something to guide the bird to the beach as a support system.
that's what everybody wants an' some more
singing "you may be the death of me"
singing "you may be the death of me"
