Jone suspects her bandage needs changing. What was once a blotted brown has blossomed red. She grimaces slightly. The mages will fix it properly tomorrow, when they're not worrying about nobles and patrons.
"Beth, you mean?" Jone sidles closer to Gabranth, as close as she can get without being underfoot. "Your obsession with that girl, I don't understand. But I'll tell her."
sends u these tags and lowers myself into my fuckin grave
“It is not— ” obstinance blooms, his exhale sharp as the edge of his sword.
His jaw locks, when he feels slighted. Denied. And Jone is right: ever since that night in the maze, it has been locked still— though now he acts without resentment, there is no letting go. Resolution, unforced, might yet ease that trouble.
But Gabranth has not managed resolution with his own blood and kin. So.
“Thank you.” The heaviness of his footing is precise enough that he doesn’t trample Jone as they stride ever closer to Kirkwall, arm extended in faint offering.
Only after a beat longer does he add, “Hold your head high, lest I tip it for you.”
Jone, unsure how else to properly react, sticks her tongue out at him. But she takes his arm and they walk together through the streets, an odd pair; one proud, one broken.
She allows no anxiety to show on her face, a thing more potent than shame.
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"Beth, you mean?" Jone sidles closer to Gabranth, as close as she can get without being underfoot. "Your obsession with that girl, I don't understand. But I'll tell her."
sends u these tags and lowers myself into my fuckin grave
His jaw locks, when he feels slighted. Denied. And Jone is right: ever since that night in the maze, it has been locked still— though now he acts without resentment, there is no letting go. Resolution, unforced, might yet ease that trouble.
But Gabranth has not managed resolution with his own blood and kin. So.
“Thank you.” The heaviness of his footing is precise enough that he doesn’t trample Jone as they stride ever closer to Kirkwall, arm extended in faint offering.
Only after a beat longer does he add, “Hold your head high, lest I tip it for you.”
It is not, in any sense, an acute demand.
gets shovel.
She allows no anxiety to show on her face, a thing more potent than shame.