[...damn this fool of a Servant. The gesture's become too instinctually calming now that he can't even pretend to stay mad. But he huffs anyway, just for the show of it. Not all of it was a lie. Stupid gods were always getting in the way, always tearing him down, always spiting him for some reason or another.
And for what? To offer his own arm had been a serious show of respect, to speak of kinship in their mutual existence as agents of order and chaos. Damn this Servant and damn that Shuck. He'd skin that wolf and wear his hide before his time here's through, he's sworn to that much.
He reddens a little, though not out of any sense of embarrassment. It's because he's having to lie again, this time by omission, about that better end than the last time.]
...it's cold.
[It isn't—not for Servants, at least—and it's not exactly an answer to anything Diarmuid has said, but it is an open invitation that he's amenable to contact, to being drawn closer. It's a start towards fixing whatever mess this was.]
no subject
And for what? To offer his own arm had been a serious show of respect, to speak of kinship in their mutual existence as agents of order and chaos. Damn this Servant and damn that Shuck. He'd skin that wolf and wear his hide before his time here's through, he's sworn to that much.
He reddens a little, though not out of any sense of embarrassment. It's because he's having to lie again, this time by omission, about that better end than the last time.]
...it's cold.
[It isn't—not for Servants, at least—and it's not exactly an answer to anything Diarmuid has said, but it is an open invitation that he's amenable to contact, to being drawn closer. It's a start towards fixing whatever mess this was.]