Jigano sat quietly, dragging in a breath to speak at the mention of the Blighted on Long Night - needing to make sure the warning was said aloud, even if everyone in the room already knew it. But Wessex's apology caught him off guard, and the spike of rage broke past his attempt to hold it in check, at least momentarily. "Would you--!" He started to snarl, half-rising from his seat before catching himself, landing back in the chair with a thump and grinding his teeth together to hold the rest of the words back. One hand gripped the edge of the table as if for dear life while the other fisted against his thigh, twisting a handful of tunic as he forced himself to breath through his nose, glaring down at the innocent cup of half-drunk tea before him. He gave a short, sharp shake of his head, half-apology of his own, half-acknowledgment that he had heard Wessex, but didn't dare trust himself to speak.
He only barely heard about Loren's plan, managing a tight nod of agreement to the idea to put out supplies for the blighted. Would it even matter? He thought about telling Wessex about the cold that sank into his skin always, even in front of a roaring fire and bundled in wool blankets, a chill no mortal heat could chase away. The cold outside meant little in comparison, and as the symptoms grew worse, there seemed less and less reason to care about things like cloaks and jackets when nothing helped anyways...
But if it made the people of the Settlement feel better, to think that they were helping, what was the harm?
If he'd had anything else to address, he had forgotten it in the struggle against the blight-sparked fury that still twisted through him. He only shook his head, tasting his own black blood from where he had bitten his tongue, and hoped that Remi understood his reticence for the iron self-control that it was, and not the rudeness that it likely appeared to be.
He only barely heard about Loren's plan, managing a tight nod of agreement to the idea to put out supplies for the blighted. Would it even matter? He thought about telling Wessex about the cold that sank into his skin always, even in front of a roaring fire and bundled in wool blankets, a chill no mortal heat could chase away. The cold outside meant little in comparison, and as the symptoms grew worse, there seemed less and less reason to care about things like cloaks and jackets when nothing helped anyways...
But if it made the people of the Settlement feel better, to think that they were helping, what was the harm?
If he'd had anything else to address, he had forgotten it in the struggle against the blight-sparked fury that still twisted through him. He only shook his head, tasting his own black blood from where he had bitten his tongue, and hoped that Remi understood his reticence for the iron self-control that it was, and not the rudeness that it likely appeared to be.
