ᶠᶤᶰᵈᵉʳˢ ᴷᵉᵉᵖᵉʳˢ

the outsiders

“What’s this we?“ 

          It’s a quick outburst, lined to the brim with all the venomous doubt he’d done his best to keep under wraps thus far. No doubt that was bound to boil over eventually, all things considered.  He’s worried; loathe as he is to admit it, even in his own mind, it is no less true.  How could he not be?  A loss now would prove a devastating setback, rendering everything they had done thus far entirely worthless, perhaps even making it so that recovery was but a day dream for those unfortunate souls on the losing side.  It’s possible, entirely possible.  The mere weight of that thought is enough to stretch frayed nerves to the shambles of their final threads, dulling the sharpened edge of a mind honed for these dire situations because…for once, it is not just his fate at stake.  Such a sobering notion that is.

“Whatever may come of it, we have gone too far to stop now; we are all committed.”

@makhlun

“ -- y’ tellin’ me, or yourself?”  Directed at him, it’s a wasted breath.  No task, no commitment binds so completely that a determined dwarf cannot break away, should he so choose.  He’s made a living on that, slipping away before a situation could advance too far out of his control.  Not always possible, of course, but taking the opportunities presented helped keep him intact thus far.  If he was really smart, if any of them were, they would do just that.  So why, then, was he still here?  Why had he not backed away when the first signs appeared, when their steadfast leader began his descent? 

Red Dead Redemption - accepting

Well, that’s certainly one way to put it.  Such is the way of things for one like himself, as making off with more than he intends to use is where profit comes into play.  There is a buyer for everything, some poor sap with deep pockets all too willing to take excess off the hands of those offering a “deal” of sorts; this, he realized a great many years ago, and that drop of knowledge has contributed immensely to his success thus far.  It put a few extra coins in his pocket while simultaneously leaving enough for his intended purpose – to tuck it away among his brother’s belongings, where it might be found at a later date and mistaken for money set aside and forgotten.  So, yes, indeed he had stolen more than he’d made use of, but could one really fault him for that?  Oh, but many would, as they tend to see only the surface.  No one gives a second thought to why; all they see is the stolen horse, and the thieving hands holding the reins.  People are funny that way. 

A breathy hum is the best he offers at first, clinging to the air of nonchalance while studying that observation.  Suspicion, rather.  Was it that, merely suspicion, or did it delve even deeper, bordering instead on accusation?  Had she perhaps caught a glimpse of sticky fingers in action or merely overheard chatter among the others?  Maybe it was the muffled argument with Dori earlier, where the subject came up for the thousandth bloody time – or, maybe she’s just talking out her ass, with no basis for the suspicion aside from racial prejudices.  Hard to say.  Suppose there is only one way to tell for sure without jumping to his own conclusions.

Galavant

Lady Tremaine Starters (accepting)

      It’s with him always, a poor reminder of days long gone, in the form of a tiny, gem-laden carving of a bird of prey, one of few things he had left of her.  The occasional encounter counted for something, yes, but that tiny little charm brought him back; washed away all time lost between them whenever it rest in his palm, and suddenly he’s back at her table, listening to her fears and worries and what if the worst should happen.  He took it all in stride.  With sufficient practice facing such an onslaught, he knew how it would go.  What to say, what to do, what to expect.  It seemed to work for a time, but before they parted company, she shoved the bauble in his hand with a claim it would keep him safe.  Bring him luck in his endeavors, and all that.  He didn’t believe a word of it, but the thought meant the world.  

      Best of all, it was crafted by her own two, very-talented hands.  Of course he would keep it close.  He noticed when it was missing from its place against his chest, especially now when all luck and well wishes were so desperately needed – for the lot of them.  When it first came to attention, he scoured everything in reach in a vain effort to find it.  And now, he sees why he’d been unsuccessful.

      Habit, not reason, draws a hand to his breast pocket, a quick double-check despite seeing the hawk right in front of him.  In Dwalin’s hand – why?  When had it fallen out, if it had at all?  Had…had it been taken off his person?  Again, he has not a clue when that might have happened, and for the moment, it matters little.  Those are details he can ponder after it’s safely back where it belongs.