@vengefulkilllist
By the back exit of the tavern, the door propped open just barely to keep the warmth of the kitchen inside, Falk sits propped up against a sack of flour. There’s a soft hum to his voice as he works his fingers through his hair, twisting the longer strands into comfertable braids.
As he finishes the end of one braid, winding the hair behind his ear, the hum turns into whispered lyrics of an old hunting song. As the second braid is finished, the whisper turns into the full song, echoing quietly through the tavern door.
Verral had been waiting outside the door, trying to distinguish the figure with his mask down (his sight was definitely getting worse even with Lindsey’s care), but paying way more attention to the whispers, and the tune, and what soon became a song that enchanted his ears like music always did to him, as if he could feel his heart pulsating young again.
But he wasn’t there to listen. He had tried gambling at the tavern, and being bad at romance didn’t help him in the game, as the folk used to say. He lost all the money he had on him, and his already empty stomach grew in hunger as the day passed. He finally decided to reach the barracks’ kitchen, steal something from there, hoping maybe there was no one around to see him...
...As if he was someone difficult to spot. He had put on his mask and pushed the door silently, but the moment he stepped inside the kitchen, he already knew the bounty hunter had heard his heavy steps. Now he just hoped he wasn’t too angry that he interrupted him in such a private moment, and that he’d cooperate, and not have to leave physically injured.
Being anybody else, he could expect to win on a man versus man fight, but not against a bounty hunter. These men were trained, stronger than his kind, faster, more agile, more dangerous, thirsty for the hunt. He could only hope this man preferred the words rather than the axe.
