The Written Word

There was a slight tension that ran through Faelyn at the mention of punishment. A word he did not like used around him, much less directed at him in his day to day life. His years of life had seen more than enough punishment, and that fact was written out on his skin and down into the fabric of who he was. Punishment had defined him body and soul. 

Faelyn gave in to the need to pull the blanket closer around his shoulders, hiding away his skin entirely, the reserved mask settling back into place as if it had never left. Not punishment, no. But a game between equals, perhaps. Gone was the soft, breathy quality to his voice, replaced again by the smooth, honied tone of the archivist as if nothing had transpired between them that afternoon.