Dragoncrest Cliffs last night i dreamed i was shot

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the sound of approaching footfalls draws geist's attention, haunting mismatched gaze lifting from the stillwaters he laps at — slower now — to follow the approach of the stranger. male. small, lithe. brown and cream. covered in disfigurations and scars. it is a war between the empty eye socket and permanent scowl that which he finds more repulsive. he speaks in common, which, for the most part registers in geist's brain as gibberish. he blinks slowly, comprehending barely what is being communicated to him as the bird corpse is offered to him. despite the uncertainty of what the stranger says, his tone appears casual. still, geist is mistrustful of all that are not his dearest rabe.

he hesitates; still unsure he's understood before protesting, ❝ich will es nicht —❞ he is scorched not lame; and the offer is perceived as a charity and thus the sour taste of insult lingers metallic-like upon his tongue instead of an extended olive branch of, at the very least, civility. the perceived insult is not unlike the taste of smoke and ash. geist, still a bit too fresh from his recent flashback, is eager to rid himself of the haunting; lifts mismatched gaze from the bird to the marred stranger.

once more, he falls to silence trapping the sultry, soft whisper-like dulcet tones to their pandora's box; always feeling uncomfortable when speaking to any but rabe.