It seems that Stavros’ somber mood tarnishes the sparkle in the step of Vadim, though the dappled warrior cares very little that he has managed to diminish some of the cheer inherent in the gilded gentleman’s day. Glad to be moving, the aged warrior in fact notices nothing about the chatty stallion’s change in mood, and instead is more focused on the features of the city towards which they turn.
When they pause, however, the white warrior tilts his attentions towards the moon-faced lad, the slightest hint of inquiry visible through the weary expression that otherwise seems forever plastered to his expression. That he’d not given his name was a fact that had passed Stravros by; with a grunt of disgruntlement (with both himself, and the necessities of society), the tall man takes in the good humored smile of Vadim with all the warmth of an ice coated rock on a February morning.
"Stavros," flatly offers the former soldier, wondering as he looks back towards the city if this unclothed young man is the best escort for a vagrant such as himself. Thin and dirty, his normally trimmed mane in disarray, and his features lined with enough blank hopelessness to make a gentle-hearted child cry, the only true semblance of the well-kempt gentleman he truly was lingered in the stark whiteness of his chiton, the fine glimmer of the metal threads which trimmed it, and the prettiness of the golden bird which pinned it in place upon his waning figure.
For a brief moment, he thinks that he maybe shouldn’t go into the city, the faintest inkling of shame slipping through him to be such a poor representation of the honorable Luca. Looking at the strange city, however, the once-soldier is reminded that he has little choice; as far from home as he seemed to presently be, it would be foolish to turn away the chance to gain some insight into his new situation. With a sigh of resignation, he hopes that they can get it over with as soon as possible, and that, maybe, there is a bath house somewhere within.
|
