KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
The appearance of the knife made Korbin tense, and he was not alone in that. Most of the men - and women - who sat strewn across the room were armed in one way or another, and a few hands strayed automatically to their own daggers, all while eying the crazy girl from the corners of their eyes.
Korbin's gaze lingered on the blade. He was not armed. His knives had been taken away by an overzealous healer, because the uses he would put them to went a little beyond carving patterns into the skin.
"You assume a great deal," he finally said, voice dropped into something quiet, almost soft. "What makes you think death is not what I'm striving for?"
Korbin's gaze lingered on the blade. He was not armed. His knives had been taken away by an overzealous healer, because the uses he would put them to went a little beyond carving patterns into the skin.
"You assume a great deal," he finally said, voice dropped into something quiet, almost soft. "What makes you think death is not what I'm striving for?"
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
