Ankyra Sound the fault is not in our stars, but the moon; that idiot rock ruins everything

hey. she speaks the word with such care.

the gangster can hardly blame her for her uncertainty. their last reunion hadn't went as well as arturo had planned for. he is as much to blame for that as the cursed witchdoctor. lotte's death had brought arturo — on a pedestal so very high — down to the ruins of the earth he thought he'd left behind. lotte's death brought the gangster: ruthless, cunning, cold to his knees as it shook him to his core. his nightingale queen'd been his heart. it is still painful to think of, months ...or has it been a year now? ...later. perhaps he'll always grieve her and the hole she'd left in his blackened heart. if it beats now it is only to remind him that he's alive. he's still in the good fight. he's still fucking clever and cunning and the world is still his fucking oyster.

dust yourself free of the ashes of what once was. it is no more and never will be again.

hello, the gangster breaks his silence since calling out to her with a soft clear of his throat. while he'd always been good at talking ...talking about emotions ( or dealing with them, really ) had never been his forté. a twitch of the coywolf's ear is given as he considers her inquiry. if the place he'd taken temporary refuge while he nursed his broken heart and his broken mind had a name he didn't truly know it. hadn't cared to learn it. nursing wounds that i should have never left to fester. he does not elaborate, assuming that she will know exactly which wounds he refers to.

you've grown so much. arturo observes after a beat, not quite sure what they should talk about. he doesn't really know the woman his little spit-fire daughter had blossomed into and truth rung like a melancholic toll of a somber bell within him. how've you been? because he really doesn't want to talk about himself.

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