The white sheep of the family
Loren raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Weaver's words. "I can certainly be flexible." However, he was putting less effort into the casual flirting and the banter, since the rest of the conversation was veering into less than happy topics for him.
As she spoke of magic, though, he reached out and placed his hand on hers again, gently. "I agree with you wholeheartedly. And I'm sorry you had to deal with that, growing up." Squeezing her hand, he pulled his back to take a sip from his mug. "My own magic manifested when I was five, which was late for my family. And it was always weak which they...looked down upon." He swallowed, a hard lump suddenly in his throat.
Giving her a curious look, he drummed his fingers on the bar. "If you don't mind me asking, what magic do you have?" There was a strange sort of boyish curiosity in his voice.
At her words, he swallowed again. "I'm sorry for your loss." It came out with a genuine sympathy, one colored by his own lifetime of losses. Turning away a little, he rolled his mug between his palms. "You're right. About the making the most of it. But while I know that objectively, it's hard to...feel that way sometimes." He shrugged, having trouble expressing it, though hoping she'd understand.
"She sounds like a good mother." There was a slight questioning tone in his voice, and he'd turned back to face her. "I was trained a little bit on weapons and unarmed combat, but not as much as I'd like. My training mostly focused on magic. Perhaps you'd like to trade tips some time?" It came out tentatively, as if he wasn't sure how she'd respond to such an overture.
Waving away her apology, he took a long drink from his mug, finishing what was left. When he lowered it, his eyes were sad. "I survived." His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.
As she spoke of magic, though, he reached out and placed his hand on hers again, gently. "I agree with you wholeheartedly. And I'm sorry you had to deal with that, growing up." Squeezing her hand, he pulled his back to take a sip from his mug. "My own magic manifested when I was five, which was late for my family. And it was always weak which they...looked down upon." He swallowed, a hard lump suddenly in his throat.
Giving her a curious look, he drummed his fingers on the bar. "If you don't mind me asking, what magic do you have?" There was a strange sort of boyish curiosity in his voice.
At her words, he swallowed again. "I'm sorry for your loss." It came out with a genuine sympathy, one colored by his own lifetime of losses. Turning away a little, he rolled his mug between his palms. "You're right. About the making the most of it. But while I know that objectively, it's hard to...feel that way sometimes." He shrugged, having trouble expressing it, though hoping she'd understand.
"She sounds like a good mother." There was a slight questioning tone in his voice, and he'd turned back to face her. "I was trained a little bit on weapons and unarmed combat, but not as much as I'd like. My training mostly focused on magic. Perhaps you'd like to trade tips some time?" It came out tentatively, as if he wasn't sure how she'd respond to such an overture.
Waving away her apology, he took a long drink from his mug, finishing what was left. When he lowered it, his eyes were sad. "I survived." His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.
Will blood tell
