Ill-Made Martyr [Open]

As soon as he was touched, Peter froze, his jumbled words falling immediately silent. He blinked, staring down at the hand on him as if he were confused about its gentleness. It was enough to break his cycling thoughts, remind him he was somewhere different, somewhere... better. Maea’s apology drew Peters gaze back up to her face, proper surprise on his face. If one didn’t know any better, they would assume that he had never been apologized to, not sincerely. ”I think I can... I can make different things.” He offered, trying to seem casual about it. Like he wasn’t just assuming he could. Biting his lip, Peter contemplated her words. He still didn’t like the idea of being given a title he had no control over, but it didn’t seem to be as bad here. It was peaceful, and quiet. Offering Maea another slow, hesitant smile, he took a deep breath. ”It’s not... wasn’t? Um, it wasn’t called m-magic, for me.” Even saying it made Pet feel strange, like a child repeating something stupid, but his words were steadier and softer now. ”I was told there there were other vari.. vari-ri... there were other kinds. Do you... do something different than... then making?” Peter The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.