23rd of Dentis, 2718
SHERRY'S PENINSULA | AFTERNOON-ISH
"Broken things? I try not to, but, well, sometimes I don't mind a bit of tinkering in the shop." Only Corwynn could make such words sound both like a serious description of his life choices as well as an innuendo at the same time. Curious, never one to shy away from an interesting adventure, and always one to watch his back because he had more enemies than friends as a Bad Brother, the blond galdor wasn't about to dismiss the possibility of Xonia's now-dead caretaker having connections that would serve or inform his King in some way.
When the young thing turned the tables on his words, calling his hand on his typical inappropriateness, the gunman blinked. The hint of a confused scowl creased its way into his features, though he was neither apologetic nor chagrined,
"Hulali's scales, I'm not bothered." Corwynn replied flatly, crystalline gaze unfazed by the knife she bared, his field shifting and tightening about his person as if in response. Defensive but not threatening, for the older galdor was hardly worried about the danger level of a young woman and her small blade. At least, not yet, not in their current situation. Still, he cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, raising both hands. They were calloused and worn and the index finger of his once-dominant hand was missing. An ugly scar where bone and flesh had once been were all that was left of his trigger finger on that side. From his wrists and disappearing into his sleeve, deep blue tattoos of stylized ocean waves crawled under his unusually tanned skin (unusual for a galdor, had Xonia known any different),
"Listen, I'm going to be plumb clocking clear with you right here before you get to carried away justifying whatever it is you feel like justifying or waving pointy things around, alright? I'm a Bad Brother. I work for Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld, the wick who has Anaxas' economy by the balls. I've been a criminal of some kind or another since I wore my cute little green Brunnhold uniform, so anything that's going on in the Harbor is not only my business, but my King's business, too. This includes anything with this Lorent of yours, and, possibly, yourself, too. I'm not being kind or generous or flirting with you in hopes of getting you in my bed. I'm looking out for what's mine. So, let's start over from here, alright?"
Ruffled but not worried about his honesty, Corwynn sighed instead, lowering his hands to rub at his blond-stubbled cheek with one sea-weathered hand, "For the record, just because you're hiding a knife doesn't mean you know how to use it." He winked, adding the bit of humor at the end of his long commentary as if to remind Xonia that she was, despite everything he'd said, quite safe for the moment. He had no interest in doing her harm unless it was in self defense and he was genuinely curious about her story and situation,
"And if Lorent was all you knew, then it sounds to me like you can't really see past your own opinions of a man who led a life full of things he didn't entirely share with you in full. I'm standing here on the outside, observing, listening to what you know and where you've come from. If you want help, I'm happy to offer it, but you'll have to think a lot more objectively than just nursing some daddy dearest feels and hoping for answers to wash up on the beach." The Bad Brother chuckled, not ignoring her hurt so much as unwilling to deal with it.
Drawn to him. Was that a ploy? It was ... quaint.
Beneath the pirate exterior, past the gunpowder and blood money, Corwynn was an immensely elusive creature who had managed to live for over four decades without ever being pinned down by his emotions.
Sure, he kept friends. He'd had long-term lovers. He'd never considered marriage. He didn't cry when he buried his parents. Selfish and self-preserving, if the blond gunman had soft feelings at all, they were a treasure long-buried with a map wrought with danger.
Corwynn let some quiet creep in between them, though it wasn't out of frustration. He simply didn't know how to navigate these waters quite yet and he realized that the young stranger was difficult to read. She desperately wanted answers, that much was clear, and while he could feel the strength of her field and he could recognize the delicateness of her features, he was rather loath to make assumptions on her heritage. Why would anyone want to raise a galdor in ignorance?
Her next question was so unrelated that he felt as though someone had just cheated him at a hand of cards—breathless. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, the shorter, older man smiled almost mischievously, but the expression was, strangely enough, not at all his usual predatory grin, "You mean, in the room with you? I, uh, well, usually, I don't—" The galdor swallowed a series of inappropriate comments about how he'd probably never platonically shared a bed with anyone his entirely life, watching as the young blond sat and shrugged off her coat, "—I suppose I can get a little creative with sleeping arrangements, though it's a bit early yet. We can have something to eat, a bit of wine, you can regale me with some more stories, and perhaps we can come up with some avenues of research on your history and your deceased caretaker. Hmm?"