Whitefish River when i wake up i'm afraid

She began to delve into queries – of reasons, of settlement and escapades. He took this moment to gather himself fully, a startled breath steadying into quietude, as rapids might spume and writhe before fading into the demure bubbling of a stream. Steeled and unwary; a solemn man, yet polite in his poise. Listening to her affable examinations, the traveller whisked a chalk-dusted ear in wordless thought before leaden lips parted to give answer to her words.

“I have no intentions of settling yet,” he mused with a negligible cant of his chin, a nictating of indecision crawling unwelcome to swaddle the weight of his throat – however good-natured her words may be. He simply wasn’t used to the proclivity of seeking insight, of others taking heed of his own intentions, but did not allow the incertitude to unveil themselves upon his face, dark and brooding in display. At least, he owed her honesty – it was not perfidious if he chose simply to say less. “Maybe one day.”

“Landmarks, primarily,” the Valento decreed in continuation, thrumming with the low timbre of his voice. Stiff muscles began to slacken just as the count let her own posture dilute – he was beholden, truthfully, of her approach; mildly convivial, amiable in the passing of words from one to another. Although a sombre soul, careful in equanimity, the man was not unfriendly. Simply unsociable. “Soltero,” he offered her diffidently, taking note of the name she provided him; while having no postulation of friendship, Ira was a welcome presence in the isolation of his travels. “Your insight is… well-appreciated.”