THE WIDOW'S WALK | EARLY EVENING
The witch stood, wavering, confused, unable to make that decision to walk away but unable to commit to staying in his vicinity. Her glamour was weighed down with the emotions that visibly contorted her features, and the noise of uncomfortable sadness that escaped her was only a prelude to the waterworks that threatened to spill—
Oh, gods, no, the young woman was crying, and all Corwynn could do was sip his chan and glance over the Widow Walk's outdoor railing, the sun nearly set now. Tears were not his wheelhouse, even though he was not opposed to other people having emotions of any kind, whether they concerned himself or not.
He just wasn't much of a comforter, at least not in the soft sort of way.
If the blond gunman was going to assuage anyone's hurts, it generally involved drinking, sex, or shooting the ersehat who caused the problem. Preferably more than one of those things.
At this moment? Well, he was drinking, at least.
Crystalline blue eyes glanced back up again with a well-hidden reluctance, reminded of the Mugrobi witch's youth simply by the depth of unprompted grief and angst sobbed at no one in particular. Her words made her sound like a far better child than she obviously felt like, considering she actually suffered over her decisions in light of a parent or parents. Her concern was far deeper than Corwynn was used to, an only child in his forties with no spouse or no legal heir. He didn't open his mouth to interrupt, but instead chose to shift in his seat so that he could hook a boot around the chair she'd so hastily fled from and drag it toward the edge of the table until he bumped it purposefully against Aziza's side, wordlessly prompting her to sit should she notice.
He didn't pat her hand or offer a patronizing there, there or even attempt to shush her, perhaps far too deep into his second mug of chan to really be offended by the outburst that was, deep down, not even about himself at all. Corwynn had invited her to sit and calm down instead of shooing her away, his more experienced and well-traveled age perhaps suddenly far more obvious by his less excitable, calm decisions,
"I'm not going to make any comments about familial relationships, save one: eventually, you will have to be your own person, regardless of cultural expectations between parent and child. Just because someone expects you to be good, doesn't mean you have to define yourself by them. Trust me on that one." He sipped the steaming, intoxicating tea and sighed, relaxing into his seat despite the emotional outburst that had washed over his sea-weathered self like some late Roalis storm,
"I'll choose to leave morality out of the conversation for both our sakes, Az. I've made my peace with my decisions well over a decade or two ago, and the rest is philosophical discussion I need more of this chan for to have." He winked with a mischievousness that creased its way into his tanned, well-aged features, "Being afraid of the Bad Brothers is highly recommended, at least, if you're on the wrong side. Here in the Harbor, it's a little difficult to avoid touching things my King owns, but, regardless, he's a pretty 'you do you' kind of wick for the most part so long as there's a bit of coin exchanged either way. Do you fear the Seventen in Vienda now that they've revoked writs for non-tsats? Do you worry about how my more civilized kind may judge you even traveling the open road? What's the difference?"
He wasn't looking for an answer so much as providing his examples: did galdorkind work with any superior morality to the Underworld when it came to the treatment of others? Sure, they weren't armed with the firepower at his hip, but Corwynn wielded magic with just as much proficiency as his peers. Well, at least, with some form of proficiency as he would have admitted he was hardly a sorcerer.
"I'm not exactly the good sort, either, to be fair."
His grin was wicked and unapologetic once again while he shrugged, comfortably settled and leaning back in his chair, one arm shifting to drape over the back while he crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, swirling his chan and letting his gaze drift from the rich darkness of the Mugrobi woman's skin to the floating grit left undissolved in his warm, intoxicating drink, "I'm used to filling the desema role, so it's going to take a lot more than that to offend the likes of me."