HARPER
Even the darkest and loneliest of nights do not find Harper in the depths of a bottle. Not that it hasn't called to him like the world's most convincing siren in the wasteland hours of twilight. Perhaps if Harper was a stronger or better man, he would drown his sorrows in double malt until it all hurt a little bit less. The problem is that Harper can never relinquish that strict hold upon himself, for fear of the exact levels of danger and harm he can create. Instead, he has learned to live with the tidal currents of agony that life sees fit to toss at every man, heedless of origin or morals. Sometimes that means breaking and splitting the skin of his knuckles, the palms of his hands, on sandbags that split and combust in grand displays beneath his battle-hardened fists. Sometimes that means staying awake crying in the dark, silent and motionless. Coping mechanisms differ from soul to soul.
Which is precisely why, at first, Harper thinks nothing of the solitary figure sat alone at the bar when he arrives. He orders his own singular drink - not ale, because he misses the fruity concoctions of his world and the sugary hellbenders they could send him on, but the closest they have is wine - and hesitates as he takes in the seats at the bar. There is something about the man that makes him pause. Call it a sixth sense, or empath abilities, or merely a stroke of curiosity. Harper isn't the type to question his gut instincts, so he slides onto the barstool next to the man and gently sets his own glass upon the bar. "It's on me if you'll keep me company for an hour or so," he offers after overhearing the request. The man looks a few too many deep, but kindness runs too thick in Harper's blood; he can't stop the man from drinking more, but he can ease the financial burden in some way.
Which is precisely why, at first, Harper thinks nothing of the solitary figure sat alone at the bar when he arrives. He orders his own singular drink - not ale, because he misses the fruity concoctions of his world and the sugary hellbenders they could send him on, but the closest they have is wine - and hesitates as he takes in the seats at the bar. There is something about the man that makes him pause. Call it a sixth sense, or empath abilities, or merely a stroke of curiosity. Harper isn't the type to question his gut instincts, so he slides onto the barstool next to the man and gently sets his own glass upon the bar. "It's on me if you'll keep me company for an hour or so," he offers after overhearing the request. The man looks a few too many deep, but kindness runs too thick in Harper's blood; he can't stop the man from drinking more, but he can ease the financial burden in some way.
this is your ocean, an ocean of night
BASE INSPIRED BY ODD <3
