Wild Berry Meadow pestilence-stricken multitudes

Daighre listened.
 
Sort of.
 
It was half-hazard, and tentative, and he didn’t really fucking care or want to care—
 
But he listened.
 
And when it was all said and done?
 
“You think way too fucking much, Frosty.” He grumbled, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, and looking away just to look back. His expression could be best described as longsuffering, his heavy brow furrowed.
 
“So what? You just do whatever the fuck you want? Not caring?” It would explain a whole fucking lot, in hindsight. “All because, what? Your not-god has it all figured out?”
 
Sounded a whole lot like fucking religion to him.
 
Sounded a whole lot like an excuse to not be the river, but instead the pebble underneath.