Re: [PM to Join] Tristaanian Greymoore was Here
Posted: Fri Jul 10, 2020 3:18 pm
6th of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | WELL PAST THE LAST HOUSE
BRUNNHOLD | WELL PAST THE LAST HOUSE
Miss Madeleine Gosselin stared at him as though he were simply a painting askew on a wall or a sofa nudged too far out of place, the look of somewhat distant concern hardly one of emotional involvement even if Tristaan had already given her a reason to be afraid of him. She seemed confused by his knowledge, but he chose not to expand on how he knew what he knew. She seemed content enough to dismiss his specific understanding as a fluke and he was content to let her.
Slowly, like some timid hingle, the girl approached again, stepping from behind the wall into the hallway, just out of reach. He felt the brush of her field, however—she was close enough to remind him of that.
"I'm in th' wrong wing, then." He grunted, softly, just attempting to get a word into her ramblings as if he didn't know what else to do with her. She wasn't really talking to him so much as talking at him, talking through him. He might as well have been deaf or mute, grey eyes watching her work through their situation without at all needing his input and giving family details he didn't need to know nor remember. She had a brother. He, too, was someone's brother, but he didn't need to tell her because she didn't need to remember that, either.
"I usually don't—uh—work on this part of Campus." Was that even the right turn of phrase? How was he supposed to know? He swallowed any other excuses he might have come up with, tense-shouldered with his heart hot against his throat. Calloused fingers curled tighter around the familiar silver pocket watch hidden from view, pressing its engraved surface against his palm, imagining the faded spectograph inside with his boyish smile and Navinia's warm grin.
"Thank you."
He was capable of proper Estuan, he really was, whispering those words too as if he was afraid speaking too loud would send the girl scrambling off again into the dark, for good this time. Leaving him lost and alone. He didn't much like being alone here, but he wasn't sure being seen in the company of a young student was really much more comforting.
She seemed to have made up her mind, regardless of all her chatter about names on boards that sounded a lot like the docks of the Harbor where he'd find the names of ships he'd been expected to unload for the day or a lot like the task lists in the textile factory of his youth that outlined the chores the resident boys like himself were responsible for on top of long hours on the machines. Miss Gosselin even smiled at him, and, truth be told, the dark-haired passive didn't know what to do with the expression, a little worried that smiling back would be rude or unexpected.
Just a flicker of warmth appeared on his well-hewn features, the wrinkling at the edges of his eyes and the way his nose scrunched just-so making the old faded scar on his face just a little more visible. Grey eyes darted away from Madeleine's face for fear of lingering too long, just a handful of days in Brunnhold having turned an otherwise charming, confident creature into some kind of skittish, nervous animal. He loathed the reminder of all he'd ached and bled not to be anymore, but all it took was one child's face to remind him that his magicless birthright was still, would always be, inescapable.
"Is this what you're studyin', Miss Gosselin? Static?" He didn't need to ask. It was pointless to even seem interested, but Tristaan didn't clocking know how far their walk was, not like he knew where his knife was or he knew how far the Harbor was. He didn't know where they were going and he couldn't bear the thought of making it in silence. His sister'd once said she'd thought she'd enjoy static conversation, especially knowing it was one of the more used conversations among the ranks of the Seventen.
His jaw clenched and he might've apologized, but he didn't. He even chanced a grey-eyed glance back in the girl's direction, following at a respectable just-out-of-reach distance from her small form, eyes drifting to her bag,
"Did you—" He bit his lip, harder than he should have, but continued, quietly, "—I can, ye—you know, make m'self useful."
"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb