corradh
all roads lead toward a castle that doesn't exist
I wouldn't know, I’ve never met the owner. Call me old-fashioned, but the unrelenting amber stare of the man seems downright disrespectful. My parents are certainly rolling in their graves. I can imagine my father’s voice, the way he would say, In my day, a man in a slave collar was terrified to even meet the eyes of the lowest free class, much less the likes of the Ieshans!
I’ve never considered myself particularly prejudiced, especially compared to Old Solterra, but there is something… that makes those thoughts seem defensive rather than proactive, or genuine, as if by convincing myself of his otherness I will not feel the urge to hold a conversation, or admit just how handsome those amber eyes are.
I know that.
I hmm noncommittally and nearly leave it at that, but the curiosity is stabbing and so I ask, with as much guile as I can muster: “Then why keep it?”
What I dismissed as merely handsome turns increasingly attractive as his expression hardens, almost imperceptibly, at my nearness. It must infuriate him and even I can admit I am pushing the boundaries more than I ought to. This, however, is a dance I know well. And it is one I enjoy not as a matter of class, or division, but simply this:
How hard can I push? I fancied at as a way of breaking wills. In reality, it is always much less romantic. In reality, I imagine my psychiatrist would say something along the lines of, it’s Corr’s way of trying to receive attention.
“What do you even need the figs for?” I ask, still too close.
ooc notes go here.
