There were few things in life that Ruth felt some measure of comfort from. Books and the history of his people were two of those pillars which had kept him his sanity as a youngster. He’d have abandoned that hell sooner had he known how, been that little braver, but alas, hindsight was a spiral, and there had been enough of those in the past few days.
Heavily, hands found the pockets of his robes. With the weather changing, he had donned another layer or two out of necessity more than to reflect his style. Dark, gloomy and strikingly good looking. Still, they might have been further north, but Ruth could never keep the chill out, something left over from his sickly infant days. Perhaps it was that weak beginning that seeded the hatred rooted in his father’s heart? Ruth had long given up seeking the answer to a question he’d never likely voice. His father had never heard him once before, what would be different twenty years later?
As he rounded the desk and moved towards the hall Ruth’s mutterings distracted his attention. Once he’d glanced again to where the book had been, he frowned at discovering nothing but slab, and then a voice addressing him.
Be it his mood, or the fact he’d spent many years surrounded by everyone but Dalish, Ruth bristled some at the phrase. Tension rippled through him, only to be dispelled by an eventual sigh when his one blue eye found the book in the palm of another. The stranger’s words had him straightening, appraising the stranger who’d found his way into his quiet corner. A small smirked began tugging at one side, “Trust me, worse, more devious things, have been done, in countless places within this public property.”
Not that he’d know anything about that. Certainly not. And one shouldn’t ask the redheaded archivist about it either.
Heavily, hands found the pockets of his robes. With the weather changing, he had donned another layer or two out of necessity more than to reflect his style. Dark, gloomy and strikingly good looking. Still, they might have been further north, but Ruth could never keep the chill out, something left over from his sickly infant days. Perhaps it was that weak beginning that seeded the hatred rooted in his father’s heart? Ruth had long given up seeking the answer to a question he’d never likely voice. His father had never heard him once before, what would be different twenty years later?
As he rounded the desk and moved towards the hall Ruth’s mutterings distracted his attention. Once he’d glanced again to where the book had been, he frowned at discovering nothing but slab, and then a voice addressing him.
Be it his mood, or the fact he’d spent many years surrounded by everyone but Dalish, Ruth bristled some at the phrase. Tension rippled through him, only to be dispelled by an eventual sigh when his one blue eye found the book in the palm of another. The stranger’s words had him straightening, appraising the stranger who’d found his way into his quiet corner. A small smirked began tugging at one side, “Trust me, worse, more devious things, have been done, in countless places within this public property.”
Not that he’d know anything about that. Certainly not. And one shouldn’t ask the redheaded archivist about it either.
11-19-2023, 03:15 PM
