you are such a soft and messy thing, nobody knows how to take care of you
Dwelling may become a rot clinging to their insides when performed too frequently, but perhaps that is the point of the festival only being once a year. To let the sorrow be cathartic in its ephemerality. It’s easier for her lips to twitch in an amused smile at his words, now, with the freshly risen memories of better days to buffer the sorrow. His own smile may be directed towards the ground, but the corner curl still warms her, and the warm noise in her throat is not quite a laugh but it pairs well with the gentle brush of her shoulder against his. “Gods pray she never ends up here or we’re all doomed,” she remarks, mirthful. Raeden would take Caido by storm.
Sighing as the mood shifts with the currents of their conversation, Ru sets her paintbrush down and rolls the ache from her shoulders and neck. Perhaps she should visit her spa before she returns to the Greatwood. “No…I don’t know what to say. Somehow you’re better than me at that, though Gods only know how.” She tries for levity, but not with much effort; Deimos can read her as plainly as ink upon a page, there is no hiding her feelings. The failure and guilt she still feels for Kiada’s death mulled together with her own conflicting feelings about The Voice and her ilk.
Taking in the lantern he has made, the Valkyrie’s proud face softens into something tender and vulnerable. One hand, free of paint due to her steady hands, rises to gently touch the metal edge of the lantern as if it were the face of the child it’s made for. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” He will hear her, subdued though her vocals might be. That’s what matters.
Sighing as the mood shifts with the currents of their conversation, Ru sets her paintbrush down and rolls the ache from her shoulders and neck. Perhaps she should visit her spa before she returns to the Greatwood. “No…I don’t know what to say. Somehow you’re better than me at that, though Gods only know how.” She tries for levity, but not with much effort; Deimos can read her as plainly as ink upon a page, there is no hiding her feelings. The failure and guilt she still feels for Kiada’s death mulled together with her own conflicting feelings about The Voice and her ilk.
Taking in the lantern he has made, the Valkyrie’s proud face softens into something tender and vulnerable. One hand, free of paint due to her steady hands, rises to gently touch the metal edge of the lantern as if it were the face of the child it’s made for. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” He will hear her, subdued though her vocals might be. That’s what matters.
