a thousand faces staring at me, a thousand times i've fallen
What did he like about marble? He focuses on the glass instead, keeping the medical bag in his lap as he reaches for the comfort of the tea, the warmth it brings in the cup and stares into the liquid when it’s offered. “Thank you.” It’s an automatic response, once again, always a please and thank you – yes sir, no sir. Unless you were Loren and requested not to be called as such. “Marble doesn’t have to be perfect.” He answers surprisingly easier than before, no stutter in that though there was a moment of hesitation beforehand. As for his favorite thing? Well, that was hard to pinpoint. “The Kraai… Has pretty cups that I made. Kind of… Kind of like the marble but not.” The ones that swirled, had detailed etching within the glass.
It was a repetition, because that was what he’d been instilled to tell people when it happened – an automatic response even if he stumbled over it occasionally. But most people tended to take it at face value – handing off what he requested or what he gave, turning away and forgetting as he hoped Loren would do. But no, the Healer pries further, and perhaps it’s the fact that he’s an Outlander that he hadn’t heard about it.
He works at his lip while he debates, because maybe it would answer a question or two and get this over with sooner. “There… Was an accident with the c-cannibals. Near Whitebrim.” He says, staring intensely down into his cup, a finger trembling slightly. “They attacked me.” And his family, though it went unsaid, and he hunches further down and focuses on trying to blow on the cup of tea to cool it, to avoid more of that intense gaze, more of those prying questions.
It was a repetition, because that was what he’d been instilled to tell people when it happened – an automatic response even if he stumbled over it occasionally. But most people tended to take it at face value – handing off what he requested or what he gave, turning away and forgetting as he hoped Loren would do. But no, the Healer pries further, and perhaps it’s the fact that he’s an Outlander that he hadn’t heard about it.
He works at his lip while he debates, because maybe it would answer a question or two and get this over with sooner. “There… Was an accident with the c-cannibals. Near Whitebrim.” He says, staring intensely down into his cup, a finger trembling slightly. “They attacked me.” And his family, though it went unsaid, and he hunches further down and focuses on trying to blow on the cup of tea to cool it, to avoid more of that intense gaze, more of those prying questions.
a thousand voices dead at my feet
GLAS
