J’hasi flicked his eyes back down to the cobblestone, hoping Brielle hadn’t caught him staring. He knew full well it was rude, and it tended to make people think you were thinking about robbing them, which was definitely not the case. He just… He couldn’t help but marvel at her red hair, how soft it looked, and the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Couple that with how nice she was, how patient she was with him…
She reminded him of Maarzi.
Granted the Breton’s hair wasn’t as dark of a red as Maarzi’s had been, and Brielle’s freckles were more numerous, but it was enough to cause that persistent pull of longing in his chest to resurface after years of neglect.
He turned his head to the right, ears pricking at a nonexistent sound in an attempt to appear at ease, normal, not at all having a crisis while left to the whims of his own thoughts.
‘What makes you think that she’d want to see you again? She’s just helping out an old drunk find his way because of a piss-poor excuse for a map. Once she leads you to the Prawn, she’s going to go her own way and you’ll go yours.’ His ears lowered a fraction of an inch, staring very hard at a patch of grass at the base of a tree to ward off the pricking at the corners of his eyes.
She wouldn’t appreciate him hanging around. Brielle was kind, yes, but she had her own life that didn’t include emotionally-unstable werewolves. She had a nice, normal life with normal problems, normal cares and worries. Skyrim was a big place; it would be highly unlikely that they would run into each other again. Riften wasn’t where he needed to be anyways. He had to keep moving to keep the Thalmor off his tail, had to find that damned College Markus was talking about.
He let his ears relax as if he had lost interest in whatever had made the ‘sound’, turning to face the road ahead, allowing himself to glance at the Breton out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t form attachments, had to keep himself distanced. Regardless of how much they reminded you of a friend long lost to the grave.
The Khajiit looked back up at the road ahead, pulling his scarf up to cover his ‘cold nose’, feeling a damp warmth soaking into the fabric.
vvardenfellcat 