i aim to be lionhearted
He is, perhaps, far more patient that any others might give his credit for, considering his age -- the boy is perfectly content to sprawl out in the hallway with his legs tucked beneath the fluff that covers his chest, carefully considering the cards that he has laid out in front of him. He’d switched to blackjack a few hands ago in order to practice his dealing, doing his best to imitate the quick snaps that he’s seen at the dealer tables.
(Frankly, he’s terrible -- too sloppy and fumbling the cards with each deal.)
When the door yanks open, he leaps to his feet, the telekinesis quickly grabbing at the cards and stuffing them haphazardly into his bag, his amber eyes wide as he stares towards the warlock that has just appeared in the doorway.
(Somewhere, a dealer weeps for his poor, dog-eared cards.)
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ag---Aghavni sent me,” He stumbles over her name, at first -- he’s still not quite used to how the syllables feel in his mouth, used to names like Winifred or Desdemona, the names of witchy girls who hated his guts for what he had done to them. His tail twitches from side to side at the tip like an agitated cat, one-two-three, before it winds around his back left ankle as though to reassure himself, his ears pressed back and buried in the wild tangle of his hair.
“I’m supposed to be… getting my Scarab? And helping you with your research, although she wouldn’t tell me what kind of research it was.” He babbles the words out quickly, the syllables tripping over each other in his haste, and if his flanks weren’t already pressed against the walls of the Scarab he’s sure he would have taken a step back.
(Frankly, he’s terrible -- too sloppy and fumbling the cards with each deal.)
When the door yanks open, he leaps to his feet, the telekinesis quickly grabbing at the cards and stuffing them haphazardly into his bag, his amber eyes wide as he stares towards the warlock that has just appeared in the doorway.
(Somewhere, a dealer weeps for his poor, dog-eared cards.)
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ag---Aghavni sent me,” He stumbles over her name, at first -- he’s still not quite used to how the syllables feel in his mouth, used to names like Winifred or Desdemona, the names of witchy girls who hated his guts for what he had done to them. His tail twitches from side to side at the tip like an agitated cat, one-two-three, before it winds around his back left ankle as though to reassure himself, his ears pressed back and buried in the wild tangle of his hair.
“I’m supposed to be… getting my Scarab? And helping you with your research, although she wouldn’t tell me what kind of research it was.” He babbles the words out quickly, the syllables tripping over each other in his haste, and if his flanks weren’t already pressed against the walls of the Scarab he’s sure he would have taken a step back.
