names so deep and names so true
The end of Cian's cigarette flares crimson as he inhales. The tobacco is rich and wood-heavy, not at all like the garbage peddled on the beaches here in Torchline. The smoke which the Eye exhales is expectedly thick, curling upwards and briefly obscuring Cian's denim-bright gaze—not that Finn's looking. If the Eye is upset at all that his Spyglass is still ass-up in bed, he doesn't show it. Instead, his eyes casually survey the room, taking in the dark bottle of liquid with a brown paper bag wrapped around it, the small baggy of powder. Clothes askew and partially tucked into drawers. There are things Finn keeps neat and tidy of course—his glasses on the bedside table—and others that he doesn't—newly bought shirts in the market, for instance.
Pulling the cigarette from his lips with his thumb and forefinger, Cian regards the smouldering tip for a moment before speaking. "Tell me Finn. What is it you do for the Order?" It has the ring of a rhetorical question, though no doubt the Spyglass will feel Cian's eyes pinning him with an expectant stare.
Pulling the cigarette from his lips with his thumb and forefinger, Cian regards the smouldering tip for a moment before speaking. "Tell me Finn. What is it you do for the Order?" It has the ring of a rhetorical question, though no doubt the Spyglass will feel Cian's eyes pinning him with an expectant stare.
THE EYE
they're blood to me they're dust to you
