I THINK IT'S TIME THAT
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON
There is comfort in the cold iron wrapped around his legs, familiarity in the weight of the helmet that hid his defect from the world -- there had been some measure of relief when Sam had handed the battered armor over, some feeling that perhaps things would settle into their natural order in time -- but then again, neither of them are as they were before. Time has scarred them in places whether the other has not found yet, and as he watches Jetsam fuss over a cloak and a dagger, he wonders what time will have for them yet.
He takes the jar in his telekinesis, turning it over and over for a few moments while he carefully considers the mixture within -- had anyone else handed him an unknown jar, he might have thought they were trying to poison him, but this is Sam -- before opening it and practically dumping the contents into his mouth. His journey to the Oasis and rapid flight with the stolen goods afterward had taken more of a toll than he had noticed, and he has to remind himself not to eat too quickly lest he make himself sick. “S’not bad,” He mumbles around his mouthful, his manners lost to the winds, and he swallows quickly as Sam sends a handful of scrolls flying to the forest floor.
Perhaps a normal man might have been concerned by the frantic scrawling across the parchment, by the words that flowed like water, but that would have required being able to discern what the writing meant -- while it remained one of his more closely guarded secrets, the bastard prince had never actually been taught to read, and so he stares at the research papers with an air of faint bemusement instead. “You studyin’ wolves now, Sam?” He asks as he reaches out and grabs the sketch of himself, squinting at it as though struggling to read Sam’s handwriting (rather than trying to figure out what any of the words were at all -- Sam’s messy handwriting only made that task harder).
It had worked to hide his illiteracy when they had been younger -- hopefully it would work now.
“Speech.”
He takes the jar in his telekinesis, turning it over and over for a few moments while he carefully considers the mixture within -- had anyone else handed him an unknown jar, he might have thought they were trying to poison him, but this is Sam -- before opening it and practically dumping the contents into his mouth. His journey to the Oasis and rapid flight with the stolen goods afterward had taken more of a toll than he had noticed, and he has to remind himself not to eat too quickly lest he make himself sick. “S’not bad,” He mumbles around his mouthful, his manners lost to the winds, and he swallows quickly as Sam sends a handful of scrolls flying to the forest floor.
Perhaps a normal man might have been concerned by the frantic scrawling across the parchment, by the words that flowed like water, but that would have required being able to discern what the writing meant -- while it remained one of his more closely guarded secrets, the bastard prince had never actually been taught to read, and so he stares at the research papers with an air of faint bemusement instead. “You studyin’ wolves now, Sam?” He asks as he reaches out and grabs the sketch of himself, squinting at it as though struggling to read Sam’s handwriting (rather than trying to figure out what any of the words were at all -- Sam’s messy handwriting only made that task harder).
It had worked to hide his illiteracy when they had been younger -- hopefully it would work now.
“Speech.”
@Jetsam
