Silver Creek holy motherforking shirtballs

he's still off balance - not that it's ever particularly difficult to throw him off balance but it doesn't mean he likes it. the wisp frowns slightly, something of a sulk lurking in the lines of his mouth and the depth of his eye. the woman does not antagonist him further (yet) and so the sulk remains tucked away but ready to spring forth at any given moment. oh, delight, so predictably saturnine.

the woman - he notes her eyes have an interesting pattern to them, absently - does not give him much in the way of detail, but then again, most don't. "it's getting colder," he says, giving her a sideways look. "where're you moving on from?" the vailë - no, nénar, he corrects himself - doesn't have enough to go on to extend tindómë's welcoming hand, but there is potential and he intends to follow it, especially if she doesn't have any plans of her own right now.