"What's the matter? Are you sick?"
ᒥ🕷ᒧ— Once scarlet eyes flick to his company; the deep, piercing red now a rich amber. No, a drow could not hide illness well no matter how they wished to. Rinnill believed it had something to do with a drow's long hated fey ancestry, the shift in the color of the eyes when one was unwell.
"Nothing of concern," He uttered in a hoarse whisper, giving his throat a soft clearing after. The winter was never kind to him, and it showed in his shivering form that evening by the camp's fire. There was no need for a mirror to know his cheeks were dusted with the pale cyan glow of his blush, fever was settling in now.
Rinnill reached a trembling hand out for a stick, beginning to stoke the fire. "Mind yourself," The drow scoffed. Now, he was never the outgoing soul--it was the lingering result of the culture he was raised in--but with ailment, he was even more surly. His nerves were on end with the idea of weakness being shown.
