PETER
A smile flickers over Peter’s face, there and gone like one of the many bugs flitting through the air around them. Thanks are still a touch unfamiliar, an uncomfortable gift that he handles with as much grace as he can muster. His eyes narrow in the direction he’d pointed, teeth worrying his lip as he considers. ”I could be.” He says in a tone that implies he hadn’t been planning to leave quite so soon. ”Did you want someone to walk with?” He is no ones first choice for company, of that Peter’s sure, but any port in a storm, and any body in a jungle.
Thought Peter himself is not one for rumours, he knows a handful of people with a chatty streak a mile wide, people who will whip the tale in a myth, with enough time. And he knows people who’s forte is finding. ”What kind of treasure?” It’s impossible to tell if his monotone is an affectation, an attempt to seem sly and disinterested, or just his voice, though the latter seems more likely, with the way Peter seems to lean in.
Thought Peter himself is not one for rumours, he knows a handful of people with a chatty streak a mile wide, people who will whip the tale in a myth, with enough time. And he knows people who’s forte is finding. ”What kind of treasure?” It’s impossible to tell if his monotone is an affectation, an attempt to seem sly and disinterested, or just his voice, though the latter seems more likely, with the way Peter seems to lean in.
I don’t know where I’ve been
But I know where I wanna go
But I know where I wanna go
