Koltira's consternation does not lessen by even a notch. He glances back out over the water, checking to see if there are more serpents writhing beneath the surface, but all now seems still and placid. He will have no distraction from this, it seems. ]
That's a common enough problem. Would that I could say the same.
[ He'd gladly prefer a world where the dead stayed dead. A world where his existence, such as it stands, is not possible. But we aren't all born lucky. ]
[HE'LL GET OVER YOUR LOOKS EVENTUALLY OKAY???? it's hard out here for a pimp
Well, shit. It's only two sentences and neither one of them hits a ten word mark, but it's saying plenty. Cracking through the fear is a twinge of guilt—the specifics are still all blanks, but the heart of the matter is clear. Obvious as it might seem now, Richie supposes no one signs up for life as the undead.
He tries to think of the right thing to say. His heart has slowed its sprinter's pace, winding down to a brisk walk. Even the sweat at his brow has evaporated. There's danger here, but for now, it's not in the boat with him. Even with a move towards calm the best he can come up with is a very plain and earnest.]
I'm sorry.
[Richie pushes the oar through the water. For once, he'll be silent.]
[ Nor is he interested in pity. He doesn't say that so baldly, though; he's taking Richie's statement for what it is: something like a peace offering. One he will not turn away.
The shoreline is visible ahead; their journey will come to its end, soon. Koltira sits down, hands on his knees, expression neutral. His eyes--bright as lanterns, obscuring the scar-white of his pupils--give nothing away. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Koltira's consternation does not lessen by even a notch. He glances back out over the water, checking to see if there are more serpents writhing beneath the surface, but all now seems still and placid. He will have no distraction from this, it seems. ]
That's a common enough problem. Would that I could say the same.
[ He'd gladly prefer a world where the dead stayed dead. A world where his existence, such as it stands, is not possible. But we aren't all born lucky. ]
no subject
Well, shit. It's only two sentences and neither one of them hits a ten word mark, but it's saying plenty. Cracking through the fear is a twinge of guilt—the specifics are still all blanks, but the heart of the matter is clear. Obvious as it might seem now, Richie supposes no one signs up for life as the undead.
He tries to think of the right thing to say. His heart has slowed its sprinter's pace, winding down to a brisk walk. Even the sweat at his brow has evaporated. There's danger here, but for now, it's not in the boat with him. Even with a move towards calm the best he can come up with is a very plain and earnest.]
I'm sorry.
[Richie pushes the oar through the water. For once, he'll be silent.]
no subject
[ Nor is he interested in pity. He doesn't say that so baldly, though; he's taking Richie's statement for what it is: something like a peace offering. One he will not turn away.
The shoreline is visible ahead; their journey will come to its end, soon. Koltira sits down, hands on his knees, expression neutral. His eyes--bright as lanterns, obscuring the scar-white of his pupils--give nothing away. ]
Like many things, it simply is.