Hoshor Plains love into a weapon

arktos lets out a low laugh, offering a sheepish shrug of his broad shoulders. i can't help if the truth flatters you. he teases, placing a soft kiss upon her brow after she wipes away the smudge of dirt on his cheek. it's effortless, this domesticity. even if arktos isn't entirely sure it comes wholly naturally to him. then again, he isn't sure about anything in regards to himself and thus oft forces himself to live as solely in the present as he could without thinking too hard about what kind of man he was.

other than he knew he wasn't a good man.

not necessarily a bad man; but certainly not a man that could put his hand to a bible and swear that he was a decent man.

it's quiet, moss green gaze sweeps across the plains; quick. assessing. a direct contradiction to what they'd dealt with before their voices had joined in unison. i'd be lyin' if i said i trusted it. he admits in a solemn rumble. it was always calmest at the eye of the storm, quiet right before it.