Wheeling Gull Isle i hate the air he breathes

There was no joy in the smile he gave in return, no boyish charm or beguiling wit. The motion was just a baring of teeth in a facsimile of a smile, reaching for but never quite laying a hand on the concept.

He was tired. He was not yet a year old and by everything above and below, he was tired. The expression faded off his face like chalk in the rain, his eye falling to his feet.

Yet, here we are. He replied, looking out over the ocean at the mainland.

Heda says there is no rush here. I do not know how to lay idle. You can see where those things contradict. He mused aloud, venting to the only person who he believed understood what he was feeling in that moment. A fellow soldier, though this one was even more different than Arsenio.