Luneshale Pass salgado

is he grieving still?

soto whirls upon the lion, single eye glinting with madness. an urge to strike him snakes out from soto's mind, but he stops mid advancement, picking up on the almost gentle way arslan had asked.

to acknowledge his grief was to allow something to shake the crumbling house of his composure. he is a man. men do not cry.

not even for women like fiamma.

soto knows this is not true, but his culture forbids any grand display of emotion besides gregariousness or violence. 

the tension in his shoulders drops. he turns from arslan and moves down the rows, straightening green shoots where they needed it, mulching where the dirt was exposed and dry.

si. he answers at last. estás listo para tu próximo trabajo?