11-08-2017, 09:25 PM
Surprisingly, it rattles him how torn she looks in response to his nonchalance. When he looks at her, he almost sees Isobell when she had been just as young. It would have been torture to see her crumble in front of him like this, which is why he reaches toward her to lift her chin. Although it’s a struggle to smile with Ciri so heavily painted across his thoughts, he puts a greater effort into it as he withdraws from her innocent touch to search her eyes. ”And how do you know me?” He already has an idea, truthfully, but he tries for a conversation because he knows that’s what Isobell would push him to do. She wouldn’t let him spiral into darkness.
Her scent mingles with that of Nerine, a familiarity that overcomes him in reassuring waves. It entices him to one day visit and to lie on the sand beneath the sun just like when he was a colt. Perhaps she knows mother then, or Isobell. It would help connect the dots as to how she knows him since he hasn’t accomplished anything great to stand out of the crowd. Isobell is an heir while Castile is just… Castile.
While her eyes cast down, he struggles for conversation. He still pictures her as his sister to dote on, to never let grow unhappy. It’s his fault, he knows. The solemnity of his voice was enough to push anyone away and yet she remained, though slightly distressed by it. ”I’m sorry,” he finally admits while groping for an explanation, ”I just have had a lot on my mind.” He doesn’t have to justify himself to her, and yet, it’s oddly comforting to.
Her scent mingles with that of Nerine, a familiarity that overcomes him in reassuring waves. It entices him to one day visit and to lie on the sand beneath the sun just like when he was a colt. Perhaps she knows mother then, or Isobell. It would help connect the dots as to how she knows him since he hasn’t accomplished anything great to stand out of the crowd. Isobell is an heir while Castile is just… Castile.
While her eyes cast down, he struggles for conversation. He still pictures her as his sister to dote on, to never let grow unhappy. It’s his fault, he knows. The solemnity of his voice was enough to push anyone away and yet she remained, though slightly distressed by it. ”I’m sorry,” he finally admits while groping for an explanation, ”I just have had a lot on my mind.” He doesn’t have to justify himself to her, and yet, it’s oddly comforting to.