KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
That blushed and bloomed,
He never wanted to pretend. Hated the smiling mask he had worn for so long. Raged against the expectations it brought, of always shrugging things off when he wasn't, of always being content when he really crumbled to pieces, of being nice and thoughtful and considerate when it was so far from how he really felt. Korbin didn't believe in white lies, in covering up the truth in pretty wrappings to make it look prettier than it was.
What was the point in pretending to be fine when he was not? In pretending to care what his words did to others, when he really didn't give a flying fuck? Why be anything but terrible, when that's the only thing that made him feel much of anything?
Fortunately, those black moods weren't constant, but as he charged Weaver this time, there were traces of it in his eyes. He didn't even try to parry the knife hilt that was thrust into his gut; it took his wind as he crashed into her, and then they were falling. The impact with the ground rattled his vision and made his head ring. The knife wounds to his side was a constant agony that ate at his focus, the blisters on his arm a reminder of the fire.
She still had the dagger, and still breathless he tried to shift so he would pin that arm down, make her unable to use it. At the same time his unbound arm came up to try and press down on her throat, his eyes flinty and demanding a yield.
It would be his first ever win... not that he thought she would give up that easily.
What was the point in pretending to be fine when he was not? In pretending to care what his words did to others, when he really didn't give a flying fuck? Why be anything but terrible, when that's the only thing that made him feel much of anything?
Fortunately, those black moods weren't constant, but as he charged Weaver this time, there were traces of it in his eyes. He didn't even try to parry the knife hilt that was thrust into his gut; it took his wind as he crashed into her, and then they were falling. The impact with the ground rattled his vision and made his head ring. The knife wounds to his side was a constant agony that ate at his focus, the blisters on his arm a reminder of the fire.
She still had the dagger, and still breathless he tried to shift so he would pin that arm down, make her unable to use it. At the same time his unbound arm came up to try and press down on her throat, his eyes flinty and demanding a yield.
It would be his first ever win... not that he thought she would give up that easily.
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Of the old time entombed.
