I NEVER FORGOT. THEY HAVE BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR SO LONG *BUT I NEVER FORGOT.* - Tumblr Posts
@mourrow ━ cont. on another post bc legacy editor ( I NEVER FORGOT THEM 🥺🥺 )
"The world is counterfeit to me, Tempest. they'd long since given up questioning me ━ unlike you, and your burning curiosity."
Dustfinger pays no mind to the attitude befouling his companion, the half answer falling from his tongue as gracefully as he is himself : which is only to say what elegance he lacks is reimbursed with his eccentricities, ones you can observe but accept, understandable in the way he is; and as such, acting as a mask.
something holding him down ; something hidden. you could pry it from him, but rarely in his life has never made it easy.
He keeps his head dipped more than his shoddy posture would usually have him poise naturally, one hand fanned out above his brow to block out the sun as the other holds the map, sun shining off the plastic sheen in a way that made it half blinding to try to read, but Dustfinger was a man of many apathies, and with apathy often trails patience. ━ or rather, the mockery of patience, to replace where a heartache he cannot dwell on lest he is consumed by it hollowed him out, balancing the weight & the weightless. ━━ He doesn't dare to bother with looking at Morro despite his answer until he stakes a finger at Gwins pocket. ━ Something which earns Morro a sidelong glance as Gwin swivels and shakes her slender body in the hidden comfort of the fabric with the same dexterity as children might toss & turn with a certain violent carelessness when half asleep, but no less angry as one being greeted with a rude awakening.
"Mind your fingers," he speaks casually, but with a certain dry knowingness that may have been almost uncomfortable should you remember who you spoke to. "Gwin's of richer blood than any rat, and sharper nerve than your delicate little hands would be keen to." ( undead or not )
Dustfinger continues his steady pace as the word delicate rested itself on the haunch of his tongue like sugar, too sweet for him. neither exactly intended as insult or discredit to the boy, but rarely do words fall from him as they should. To Dustfinger, it was stating the inherent: masters of wind must be of softer hands than fire, naught to be burned by ice or blaze or scored in turn by earth reclaiming stones from the iron in your blood; wind was a delicate thing to unravel & work, and as such, delicate hands were inherent to wield it, to him. dexterity in weaving silk to something greater, the battle there is with something that wants to twist one way when you force it to another
━ Dustfinger never forced the flame, to him; it was a friend, but here, in this shoddy, too cold & too hot place, it was mindless, sparkless, out of itself.
to Dustfinger, it was, anyway, which of course didn't matter half as much as it might have been to anyone else, were he anyone else.
After another effort to read the map ( a part of him tempted to carve the parchment out of its plastic prison with his knife like game ) he sighs, feeling Gwin threaten ━ no, actively ━ try to chew another hole into his pocket as if to express as loudly as possible her insatiable hunger with her regained consciousness; maybe he shouldn't have half taunted / half warned the Windswept of her, he fears they might have more in common than he thought.
He enters into a decently busy area ━ perhaps a market-place? it's always hard to tell for him, eyes trained enough to recognize the staples, but never to the same certainty he knew his own world with ━ and Dustfinger scans the area with clearer eyes than he'd ever given Morro, sharp with wit but somehow never to the extensions you knew it could reach if he only allowed it to be ( or maybe it wasn't Dustfinger holding himself back at all, maybe it was something else entire ), as he steps into the center of the area. not many. ah, well. maybe it didn't matter. this would do fine.
He hauls off his backpack; a rugged thing in how it weighed him down undesirably; and began to unpack, slipping off his coat as he did. He, with a learned precision, plucks Gwin out of his pocket as he does, but blood is still drawn regardless of his efforts towards caution ( the worn skin around his eyes tense at the pain, wrinkling itself like an indebted answer ). he pops her in the bag, quick as a thief, and pulls out from another pocket a small chunk of bread no bigger than the tip of his pinkie; convincing enough to get her to release him, blood trickling from where her sharp teeth dug through, and he continues preparing as she takes the bribe & scurries further within the bag to devour it.