Zeph
"Things people need. Or want." Again you shrug, not really feeling assed enough to give more of an answer. What you trade in hardly seems like his business- unless, of course, he's buying. "Why, lookin' t'pick up somethin' special?"
Whatever sparkle the prospect of doing business may have lit in your eyes is swiftly extinguished, replaced with a guarded sort of shrewd regard as the fucker declares himself to be some sort of priest. Your respect - or lack thereof - for the gods is well documented, and we don't need to rehash it here.
So yeah, it gets your guard up, and his following intolerance seals the deal. The amusement fades from your face, hardening into something stony and unyielding. You think of Sam, made to feel less than by gods and men along, and damn if it doesn't make your blood boil and your teeth sit on edge to wonder what this smug motherfucker would do to your friend.
You're still draped in your chair with the comfort of a cat, but there's an edge to your voice that bodes no argument. "I think yer business in Torchline is done, friend." Reaching out, you try to casually grab his glass, intending to pour the drink onto the floor. A hush falls over the loud bar, eyes turning to see what's got your goat. There are murmurs beneath it, and a large woman seems to materialize behind you, arms crossed over her chest. "If ya need help findin' th'stick that's up yer ass, I'm sure Maile'd be happy t'help. Otherwise..."
You're leaning forward, your voice low, eyes glittering dangerously beneath your scar. "I'd hurry home if I was you."
Whatever sparkle the prospect of doing business may have lit in your eyes is swiftly extinguished, replaced with a guarded sort of shrewd regard as the fucker declares himself to be some sort of priest. Your respect - or lack thereof - for the gods is well documented, and we don't need to rehash it here.
So yeah, it gets your guard up, and his following intolerance seals the deal. The amusement fades from your face, hardening into something stony and unyielding. You think of Sam, made to feel less than by gods and men along, and damn if it doesn't make your blood boil and your teeth sit on edge to wonder what this smug motherfucker would do to your friend.
You're still draped in your chair with the comfort of a cat, but there's an edge to your voice that bodes no argument. "I think yer business in Torchline is done, friend." Reaching out, you try to casually grab his glass, intending to pour the drink onto the floor. A hush falls over the loud bar, eyes turning to see what's got your goat. There are murmurs beneath it, and a large woman seems to materialize behind you, arms crossed over her chest. "If ya need help findin' th'stick that's up yer ass, I'm sure Maile'd be happy t'help. Otherwise..."
You're leaning forward, your voice low, eyes glittering dangerously beneath your scar. "I'd hurry home if I was you."
you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
