[P] we've smashed to smithereens;

[Acton]

Acton whatever you feed me I'll feed you right back   He could feel that grin on his lips, warm as the liquor in his belly or the firelight on the summer air, and it was one of only a few things that felt real as she closed the space between them. Acton didn’t comment on her outfit, though he raised an appreciative brow at it – as before he was caught more thoroughly by the glint in her eyes, the way the light danced on her gleaming horn. The things about her that promised danger in addition to just heightening beauty. The buckskin snorted a laugh at her answer, though he also shook his head. “That is a Denoctian happy ending, friend. Especially considering nobody picked your pockets.” Curiously, he felt a little thrill of satisfaction that she claimed to have found no prince, though he had no right to the feeling. He couldn’t even claim a name for her, and he wasn’t even a pauper at the moment. More like a refugee, or a runaway. Her question reminded him sharply of the position he was in, and he shook his head, rueful. There was a part of Acton that wanted to share all with her – who better to listen than someone nameless? It would be like making a confession to a priest, if said priest had also helped you empty several tankards – but that part of him warred with his pride. For now, the one that had always been the victor won out. “‘Fraid not,” he said. “My pockets are empty, and these people would doubtless not take well to money that vanished as soon as I left. You’ll have to find someone else to spoil you tonight.” @Pavetta