the crackle of a fire and the song of distant pipesong echoed a slow return to the peace they previously had, no matter how tenuous. as cabins were restored and the wounded tended to, small bouts of drinking and revelry returned. but underneath everything ran a vein of sombreness. it reminded him of those broken pots stitched back together by gold.
lars, holding a drink of his own, stared blankly at the flames ahead. the tongues of bright-orange, the heat of the fire in this close proximity, they all worked together to bring back flashes, memories, moments. he tore his gaze away. the next thing it landed on, however, happened to be a better view.
he let out a grunt of acknowledgement at dante. “jester.” lars picked up an empty chalice, filled it to the brim with … hot tea.
“drink,” he prompted. “it’ll fight off the chill.”
@gamblersdeceit
