#lashskiss

Verral looks at his empty glass, and then at the inquiring man. He seems as serious as usual, but he soon starts chuckling with a low voice, as a grin appears in his face. He, then, turns around in his bar stool, and starts shooting to the crowd.

“How d’ y’all live with knowledge of your painf’l declineee, and set deathda- da- de- deathdate!!!?” He’s, clearly, way more affected by the beverage. When he’s done, everybody is quiet from hearing the other, pulling disgusted faces. They’re, in a while, back to their conversations, and the noise is back on the tavern, and Verral looks back at the flagellant, drinking again from the newly served beverage:

“I, at least, hav’ an excus’ to waste my last days like this…” the grin, still showing. “What’s yar excuse?”

@lashskiss

@lashskiss

If you look closely under the darkness of the hood covering his face, you might be able to see the beginnings of a blush.

“You tryna hammer your armor back into shape and need a reference? These ain’t for show.”

Verral is not paying attention to his face. He’s too focused on gropping and pressing against the man’s torso, the enterity of his muscles, as if he tried to make out some conclussion from this. 

With a hand under his chin, he finally patted the other’s chest with the back of his gloved hand, finally looking at his face and chuckling.

He had brought various books under his arms. One of them was his favourite book, a poems book that one of his teachers had writen down, with some of the best verses from writers all over the world, when he was a kid. The other, his trusty notebook, a book full of drawings, poems and studies, along with dried leaves and flowers that filled the pages with wiseness that would be else, lost to his death. The last one, a clean notebook, nothing writen on it, but decorated with dried petals and golden yarn holding it up. 

He prefered that they could have done this at the abbey, or even the tavern: somewhere with a table, easier to write on. But the person who considered him his “confidant” now had stated that it needed to be a peaceful, and quite place, special, indeed: he was ready to write down the things he had lived in his life, and wanted Verral to stay around, the leper assumed.

So they chose the hill that was slightly far away from the hamlet’s center to sit down and write. It seemed the other had arrived before him, as he moved towards him, crouching to give him the books.

“I see you arrived on time... Punctuality is key, even more when you’re to relate time.” He said, as he tried to sit down crossing his legs, as he groaned in discomfort. Once he was set, he continued.

“Iatros...am I correct? This is a joyful moment, I’m quite impressed you chose me to share this moment... the moment you’re to write about your past and memories !” He now reached his sidebag, getting a little vial full of ink, and a plume.”I brought everything you need to start...”

He was excited to see the other write, he could confess: curious about his prose, the style he’d use to narrate the stories and memories, and the shape of his writing, were some of the things that made Verral love seeing other writers and poets write down their thoughts.

A calloused hand clamps down firmly on the back of Fairfax’s neck, lifting him from a crouched position with fingers wrapped tight around his neck. There’s a soft grunt from behind him.

“Ya put that ring right back in th’ box.”