who we are and all that we're trying to be
Stitching up the seams, and bowing his head when she granted him several more broken, fallen chunks, he managed to conjure a light, muffled laugh that didn’t echo or resound. The beast paused in his ministrations to take a moment and extend what he’d offered – gilded filaments appeared in his palm, and eventually too, a glass and liquid that was probably beer. “Should taste slightly better,” he extended with a wry grin, before alleviating it from his grasp, and continuing with putting the figure back together again.
His brows furrowed faintly at Aino’s response, the needle poking out of his mouth for a moment while he tied and knotted together some strings, then pulled it back out when he needed it again. An injury incapable of being mended, save for breaking and fracturing filaments apart once more, and clearly not worth the trouble. Loren – capable but gone, disappeared; who knew what he was up to now, after the sickness debacle of last year. “My unicorn, Zuriel, is proficient at healing, but perhaps not to that extent.” An offer, nonetheless, if anything else was damaged and forlorn. Another detail and matter was all the more worrying in the back of his mind too – the lack of proper menders in a world as dangerous as theirs. He stored the munitions for later, listening, tilting his head, sewing.
The Sword missed the grin, but not the inquiry. Lifting a brow, he wove around the effigy, tightening a few places where the arms sagged. “I am an Outlander. Isilme, where I was born.” Then Helovia, and the battles that ensued consistently in between. “War teaches you many things,” was a solemn afterthought, as his eyes narrowed in study at the half-dangling legs.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
