it's not your fault that you're always wrong
A crooked smile spread across his face at that, Jack flicking the ash from his cigarette and stepping up to lean against the railing beside her, his eyes on the ink black of the sea. The waves seemed to writhe under the flickering light of the torches, the line of the horizon swallowed into the night; you could barely tell, right now, where the sea ended and the sky began. ”As good an assessment as any,” he said. ”Name’s Jack, by the way.”
A peal of laughter echoed across the beach to them, followed by the cheer of a raucous crowd, and Jack gave his attention briefly to the party at their backs, before blue eyes returned to Torchline’s visitor. ”Only visitors we get are from the Hollowed Grounds, these days,” he remarked. ”Heard the LongNight there ain’t so cheerful as this.”
A peal of laughter echoed across the beach to them, followed by the cheer of a raucous crowd, and Jack gave his attention briefly to the party at their backs, before blue eyes returned to Torchline’s visitor. ”Only visitors we get are from the Hollowed Grounds, these days,” he remarked. ”Heard the LongNight there ain’t so cheerful as this.”
