Bramblepoint i take my whiskey neat

his roughened tone doesn’t reach her, not in any real way. and when he lets go of the branch, the tension snaps back into the space between them. she lends him a half-curved smile.

"and rot breeds the sweetest fruit." or perhaps the most dangerous. suyin sweeps her paw across the soil to carve a small hole, "besides, the most surprising things come from a little ruin." it’s the kind of thing someone might say lightly—if not for the way her voice dips, velvet-worn and knowing.

so, suyin marks the spot not with scent, but memory. for safe-keeping. the poison-drop goes tumbling down.

he never leaves her vision. she sees discipline in his loose restraint. it is not decorative nor performative. rather, functional and dangerous all the same. the kind of man who doesn’t need to draw his weapon to make you feel the edge. 

and she appreciates that. but the danger isn’t the point—it’s the control. the restraint. that deadly calm that only ever belongs to those who’ve killed before, and often. the very same that she harbors, too.

a good sword, he may make.

"if you're still bored," she suddenly says, rising to her full height as she saunters past him, "i could use a helping hand."