when you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives
We spare you the pain of departure. Finn arrives outside the Halenani with precious little to hand. The clothes on his back fit, but they do not suit the man whose face he wears. These clothes belong to the Spyglass, and Finn has shrugged off that mantle and will likely never pick it up again. It's no matter, really, because this role doesn't require all that many clothes. It's why the bag he has slung over his shoulder doesn't contain any - just a few personal belongings, a vintage bottle of gin and a tin box of something recreational and 'fun'.
It's raining - hard - and before Finn even gets a chance to approach the Halenani doors, he's soaked through, dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his chin. Even so, his hand falters on the door handle. He swallows hard, slides his mask into place, and straightens up. Pretending has a price and he'll pay it for the rest of his life, but not today.
So it's with a sense of flustered hurry that he steps into the brothel, closing the door against the wind and rain and sweeping his hair out of his face. "The madame wouldn't happen to be at home?" he asks the receptionist with a coy and rather breathless smile.
It's raining - hard - and before Finn even gets a chance to approach the Halenani doors, he's soaked through, dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his chin. Even so, his hand falters on the door handle. He swallows hard, slides his mask into place, and straightens up. Pretending has a price and he'll pay it for the rest of his life, but not today.
So it's with a sense of flustered hurry that he steps into the brothel, closing the door against the wind and rain and sweeping his hair out of his face. "The madame wouldn't happen to be at home?" he asks the receptionist with a coy and rather breathless smile.
Finn?
