Her laughter catches him off-guard, and when she says Regent his silver eyes widen minutely in surprise. August has a couple thoughts then: that he has been gone for far too long and is shamefully out of the loop, and that this encounter really isn’t working out too well for him.
“Congratulations on your promotion,” he says, conjuring a brief and only lightly pained smile, “Regent.” His gaze strays back to the fire, which hasn’t wavered or shrunk, and which he can feel the heat of warming his chest and face. The wolf’s eyes are reflecting in it, hungry yellow moons. Morrighan’s face seems uncomfortably similar. August considers taking a step back, but he still hasn’t moved when she continues pressing him. He doesn’t blame her, but his exhaustion seems to have doubled.
“I didn’t ask you to forgive me,” he points out. “And I would hardly call limping back home after nearly a year, as you pointed out, sudden.” At her last comment, he only offers her a little smile that seems to say, yes, thank you, I feel like it too.
Explain yourself, she says, and for a moment August considers lying - saying that he’d gone to Solterra to spy, to make sure the last embers of Raum’s rule were burned out, and to get a sense of the new regime. But he doesn’t have the energy, or see the benefit, or find the potential consequences much worth the risk.
Besides, he doesn’t deal in secrets or lies anymore.
“I’m afraid it isn’t very interesting,” he says instead, and shifts his gaze up to hers. “That night you caught me on the cusp of - ah, you could say a midlife crisis. The very next morning I took an assignment on a merchant ship and I haven’t been back since.” And what a hungover morning it had been, and a dreadful few months at sea, and a far more interesting but not much healthier time in Solterra. “Until tonight,” he adds, and sighs.
“I can tell you the long version, but I’d love a drink first.” August doesn’t yet dare to raise a brow at her - she doesn’t give off a very reassuring air of level-headedness - but he does tilt his head toward a nearby tent, behind which rest several kegs of wine and ale. He is hoping that she wouldn’t make a new bonfire out of Denoctian citizen, even a prodigal son of one - at least not in the middle of a crowded festival. Still, he can feel the sweat beginning to bead on his chest at the uncomfortable proximity of her fire. “First round’s on me. What do you say?”
@Morrighan
“Congratulations on your promotion,” he says, conjuring a brief and only lightly pained smile, “Regent.” His gaze strays back to the fire, which hasn’t wavered or shrunk, and which he can feel the heat of warming his chest and face. The wolf’s eyes are reflecting in it, hungry yellow moons. Morrighan’s face seems uncomfortably similar. August considers taking a step back, but he still hasn’t moved when she continues pressing him. He doesn’t blame her, but his exhaustion seems to have doubled.
“I didn’t ask you to forgive me,” he points out. “And I would hardly call limping back home after nearly a year, as you pointed out, sudden.” At her last comment, he only offers her a little smile that seems to say, yes, thank you, I feel like it too.
Explain yourself, she says, and for a moment August considers lying - saying that he’d gone to Solterra to spy, to make sure the last embers of Raum’s rule were burned out, and to get a sense of the new regime. But he doesn’t have the energy, or see the benefit, or find the potential consequences much worth the risk.
Besides, he doesn’t deal in secrets or lies anymore.
“I’m afraid it isn’t very interesting,” he says instead, and shifts his gaze up to hers. “That night you caught me on the cusp of - ah, you could say a midlife crisis. The very next morning I took an assignment on a merchant ship and I haven’t been back since.” And what a hungover morning it had been, and a dreadful few months at sea, and a far more interesting but not much healthier time in Solterra. “Until tonight,” he adds, and sighs.
“I can tell you the long version, but I’d love a drink first.” August doesn’t yet dare to raise a brow at her - she doesn’t give off a very reassuring air of level-headedness - but he does tilt his head toward a nearby tent, behind which rest several kegs of wine and ale. He is hoping that she wouldn’t make a new bonfire out of Denoctian citizen, even a prodigal son of one - at least not in the middle of a crowded festival. Still, he can feel the sweat beginning to bead on his chest at the uncomfortable proximity of her fire. “First round’s on me. What do you say?”
@Morrighan
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
