His heart aches for her, as it would for a comrade, a fellow soldier in arms against the battle that life has become. He cannot say what would be worse—having to witness and live through the destruction of your world, or having to hear about it from someone else and suddenly realize that there are places you’ll never see again, people whose touch is forever gone. To have to live with the images of everything burning to dust, or haunted by the what ifs, wondering if things would have been different if you had been there.
There is agony in all of it, a weight that is tethered like shackles to the heart and mind.
“I’m sorry,” is all the boy is able to offer, and the words are hardly that—more like a hum that whispers past his lips, a sound that requires no response. He knows it does nothing to alleviate her pain, and really he’s not trying to (he knows, from experience, that doing so is a formidable task that cannot be accomplished by one person alone), but knowing he is not abandoned in his grief is a small comfort that he hopes to share with her. One step at a time, right? One breath, even?
His lips pinch before they quirk slightly at her greeting (“A pleasure to meet you”), almost amused by the choice of words propriety has made a habit for them. I’m sure it is, he wants to quip back, but instead settles for a brief twinkle in his gaze. “The pleasure is mine,” Fang responds, something akin to dry laughter in his words, like laughing at an inside joke that no one understands but himself.
In any case, he is happy to accommodate her request—or try to, at least.
Once the life of a party, he isn’t sure how exciting his company is these dark days.
Nodding to himself, the red stallion gestures to the streets that bustle past their dark corner. “Well, I’m sure we can find something then. I have heard tales of the colorful Night Markets. Shall we?” His rounded ears perk forward, not quite understanding why he feels like he has to steel himself before wandering through the lines of vendors and merchants. It’s equally strange and familiar, and makes his heart twist with memories. “I’m not from here either. I’m fairly new to Denocte—to Novus, in fact,” Fang admits, if it wasn’t obvious already.
tag; @Absynthe
“…”
There is agony in all of it, a weight that is tethered like shackles to the heart and mind.
“I’m sorry,” is all the boy is able to offer, and the words are hardly that—more like a hum that whispers past his lips, a sound that requires no response. He knows it does nothing to alleviate her pain, and really he’s not trying to (he knows, from experience, that doing so is a formidable task that cannot be accomplished by one person alone), but knowing he is not abandoned in his grief is a small comfort that he hopes to share with her. One step at a time, right? One breath, even?
His lips pinch before they quirk slightly at her greeting (“A pleasure to meet you”), almost amused by the choice of words propriety has made a habit for them. I’m sure it is, he wants to quip back, but instead settles for a brief twinkle in his gaze. “The pleasure is mine,” Fang responds, something akin to dry laughter in his words, like laughing at an inside joke that no one understands but himself.
In any case, he is happy to accommodate her request—or try to, at least.
Once the life of a party, he isn’t sure how exciting his company is these dark days.
Nodding to himself, the red stallion gestures to the streets that bustle past their dark corner. “Well, I’m sure we can find something then. I have heard tales of the colorful Night Markets. Shall we?” His rounded ears perk forward, not quite understanding why he feels like he has to steel himself before wandering through the lines of vendors and merchants. It’s equally strange and familiar, and makes his heart twist with memories. “I’m not from here either. I’m fairly new to Denocte—to Novus, in fact,” Fang admits, if it wasn’t obvious already.
tag; @Absynthe
“…”
Livin’ like we’re renegades
fang
Lost boys like me
are free.
are free.
please tag Fang in all replies; magic and force are permitted
