[Moments like these remind him why divisions like us and them exist.
At first he's a little relieved to see it's her and not another spirit. In truth, he needs sleep more than he needs to be picking fights, and he stays at a distance in the hopes the darkness will be forgiving in what it conceals of his state. But she doesn't stop at announcing herself as more friend than foe. She shows her palms as one does to a threat or a wild dog.
Were that all, he'd think nothing of it, as they're doubtlessly all keyed up. Except she puts her lantern down, and says his name, and still holds her hands up even after identifying him like he's on the same level as the spirits and more foe than friend--and that's when he realizes she must have saw. She saw him go dark. He's read the same fear and wariness in too many people once they know the truth to mistake it for anything else.
He watches all of this in silent, dawning understanding, and in his tiredness he still has room to feel the syrupy slow roll of anger. It's always the same, why would he expect any different here? He's just spent the last day fighting spirits and defending these people, and his reward is a lion-tamer tone meant for soothing animals, like he's the next danger on the verge of going on a rampage. And she's not wrong. He's a dark one. She's not. This is the difference between their kind.]
Afraid of me? Good. You're smart to be.
[Calm. Too calm, maybe, until she harps on his injuries. With a soft scoff and shake of his head, his answer betrays a sharp edge of irritation.]
Worry about yourself. You shouldn't be out here--you're just making yourself a target. Go inside.
no subject
At first he's a little relieved to see it's her and not another spirit. In truth, he needs sleep more than he needs to be picking fights, and he stays at a distance in the hopes the darkness will be forgiving in what it conceals of his state. But she doesn't stop at announcing herself as more friend than foe. She shows her palms as one does to a threat or a wild dog.
Were that all, he'd think nothing of it, as they're doubtlessly all keyed up. Except she puts her lantern down, and says his name, and still holds her hands up even after identifying him like he's on the same level as the spirits and more foe than friend--and that's when he realizes she must have saw. She saw him go dark. He's read the same fear and wariness in too many people once they know the truth to mistake it for anything else.
He watches all of this in silent, dawning understanding, and in his tiredness he still has room to feel the syrupy slow roll of anger. It's always the same, why would he expect any different here? He's just spent the last day fighting spirits and defending these people, and his reward is a lion-tamer tone meant for soothing animals, like he's the next danger on the verge of going on a rampage. And she's not wrong. He's a dark one. She's not. This is the difference between their kind.]
Afraid of me? Good. You're smart to be.
[Calm. Too calm, maybe, until she harps on his injuries. With a soft scoff and shake of his head, his answer betrays a sharp edge of irritation.]
Worry about yourself. You shouldn't be out here--you're just making yourself a target. Go inside.