[open] oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any

[brigade]

oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.

He is not sure if he wants company, if he wants silence, or if he wants something he cannot name.

It is a disconcerting feeling to not be able to name your own desires, to feel something swell, the pressure of it against your ribs, but not be able to understand it. It presses against his throat and builds in his chest and makes him wilder than usual, more reckless, something simmering in his veins that wants to send him catapulting off of cliffs and diving into oceans and doing anything but just standing here quietly.

But she comes and he is tethered by the moment, his wings clipped, iron grey eyes steely.

“Brigade,” he offers, voice terse but not wholly unkind. It is a voice of tumbleweeds and wind whipping down savannas; it is frigid and warm and nearly feral. It is not cruel, because wild things do not know cruelty (even when they rip the throats of prey, they are not cruel, they are simply surviving) but it does not coddle her. It does not soften for her ethereal beauty or puddle at her feet or wrap around her.

Instead his coltish shoulders straighten and his mouth remains in a firm line. The breeze pulls at the tangled, matted locks of his mane, the broken edges of his blaze peeking out from beneath his forelock.

He almost runs, almost takes to the skies, almost leaves without another word, but he doesn’t. He remains anchored, his gaze intense and focused, something within the waves of it daring her to say the next word.

@[irisa]

he has N O social skills i am so sorry