Description: Raw and stricken in the wake of tragic happenstance, Amy walks injured and alone through the night. Though she seeks solitude for her agonised thoughts, the path of destiny carries her toward a familiar face - and perhaps the only person whose unique outlook might serve to ease her pain. To most he is a bizarre and flippant creature, to her... he might be something else entirely.
In the dead of night, Southtown is at its best: It is, for the most part, empty and devoid of life. Sure, there's the occasional stray cat that darts out from under a parked car, or brawls that wind up tumbling into the street, but it is a far cry from the city commonly seen during the day. Who would guess, seeing this place as it is now, that fighters from all over the world have gathered here?
The peace and quiet of night is exactly what the Frenchman has been seeking currently, for he cannot sleep. Sometimes, a calming walk is precisely the kind of thing to get him in the mood for some quality passing out. Having returned from an impromptu trip to Scotland with Duo Lon, Ash is severely jet-lagged.
Bundled up to a ridiculous degree - it's not even cold out - Ash has on his winter jacket, red scarf and those bright, UGLY orange mittens. He's taking a much needed break to relax those long legs and sore feet, seated on a wooden swing at the park, toes of black dress shoes dug into the gravel underfoot. Winding up the chain above his fair head, he twists it around and around until he can no reach the ground, then just spins out, like a child. Wheeeeee!
That is not how you swing on swings, Ash Crimson!
Humming a nonsensical tune to himself, the flamewielder is fairly tone-deaf, and ignorant of that fact... But there's no one here to comment upon it, so he thinks, not that the freckle-faced fighter would care. He drops both heels onto the gravel with a crunch and leans forwards, "Ahhh~hhh, I'm hungry." It is doubtful that Shen would appreciate his rummaging around in the kitchen to prepare some food for himself - Ash is saddened by this fact.
Little does he know that soon there will be other things to feel melancholy about, and they have absolutely no relation to his empty stomach. But will he?
The true spirit of Southtown lies not in sight; but in feeling. Whether beneath the cool, gleaming calm of the stars or the sweaty, searing light of the summer's sun, the aura that creeps rampant through the City of Fighters remains the same. There is truly no other place like it. And yet, it can feel so restrictive - that weight of conflicting purposes a burden upon the sensitive even as it gives just cause for release of their self-imposed bonds. It's amazing how different a place can seem, viewed through changed eyes.
For a man like Ash Crimson, such concerns may be foreign. But they entwine and enrapture a certain Templar every bit as much as he sits - or swings - intent upon his own, less lofty preoccupations. Indeed, she has all but forgotten about her stomach, or the possibility of a winter chill invading the night. Her skin is paler than usual, smattered freckles bringing the only colour to her drawn cheeks as she meanders listless through the park. She is wearing pitifully little; just a pair of loose black pants and a vaguely matching camisole. They are crumpled, and may well be slept-in.
The distance in her stormy eyes describes precisely how much she may care about that. Dark hair has been left unbrushed, not quite filthy but certainly less kempt than the last time she met the flamboyant Frenchman. Though it is mostly thrust beneath the rather battered velvet cap she wears, wavy strands curl against her face, clinging to lips parched and reddened in the cool air. She is shivering, and seems equally careless of this, walking with her arms instinctively folded about her midriff as she drifts down the poorly lit path toward the swings. Moist, drifting mist trails in her path, skirting around her booted feet. It seems to halt a moment before she does, a final uncertain stumble bringing her aimless journey to an end as her gaze falls upon a familiar, brightly clad figure.
"Oh..."
It's little more than a breath upon the winds as she straightens her posture, tensing before she begins to turn away, lifting a hand to her brow to brush self-consciously at outlying raven bangs. As she does so, she is unable to hold back a pained hiss as her beret shifts, rubbing against the raw, unhealed flesh of her scalp.
In short, Amy looks like crap.
He is a mirror, mimicking her reaction, but for different reasons, "Oh." The humming ceases, and blue eyes widen, but Ash an astute observer, even when surprised. Thin brows draw together at the centre, creasing the pale skin of his forehead. When the rumpled girl turns away, the swing creaks under his weight; the Frenchman stands casually, both mittened hands finding his slender pelvis, resting there. "By all means, walk away, if that's what you think is best, oui?"
It's truly remarkable that for someone who speaks so softly, his effeminate voice actually carries quite well. It cuts deep, too. Like a chilling slap to the face.
Ash does not approach, chase or follow the girl. If Amy wishes to continue onwards, curiosity and faint interest might dictate his next actions, trailing her at a distance. "You look cold, Amee." Ash says almost conversationally, and it is hard to tell if he is concerned or merely stating the obvious and doing absolutely nothing. The young man isn't gentle or compassionate at all, though he could be.
But hey, Ash is also fairly certain that she wouldn't accept his jacket even if he offered it, so why bother?
Perhaps she intended to bolt, but from the moment that she drifted into view, it was too late for Amy not to make a scene. Were she more possessed of her better senses, she may inwardly scold herself for drawing further attention with hesitation and unneeded noise. For acting the victim. For striving to seek a response where one may have been avoided. Hurt, frightened, and emotionally frail as she is, this does not yet occur - but a small, oft-dominant part of her is relieved and thankful for the Frenchman's flippant brusqueness.
Because she believes she should be better than this; she should be beyond it.
His slicing words have the desired effect in ceasing her flight, a tremor running up her spine as she draws a shuddering breath and turns to face him, unaware as she does so that a trickle of blood cascades through her hair, dislodged by the so-faint scrape of her cap against damaged flesh. She composes herself admirably, rolling her shoulders and letting her arms clasp more loosely now, crossing just below the hips. From somewhere, she musters a smile, flushed lips lifting at the edges as though pulled on strings.
Predictably, the gesture does not reach her eyes. They are void of any disguise, unveiled and empty only in the bruised sincerity of shattered psychology. She could stare right through the Frenchman; as she could stare through anything in this moment. As though she has seen too much, and can see no more. But in spite of it, she remains at hand, drifting back toward him with ethereal steps, closing the distance between them as she pridefully gathers herself. Because he's right; she can't walk away. Just as she could not run.
"Cold...?" That seems to confuse her though, throwing off the fine balance before it can even in truth be found, and she glances down at her bare shoulders. "I don't know." It's all she can say, unable to focus on such a thing, and as she nears the Frenchman - joining him beside the swings - she steps to one side, keeping just a faint distance as she settles into her heels, cocking at the waist to bring herself into contact with the cold metal chain binding the child's plaything to its frame. It draws another shiver.
Yes. She's cold. And again, Ash is right.
"It's been a long time," she rejoins in a murmur, broken eyes finding him once more, seeking the contact of his gaze as though it may awaken her from the leaden weight of her ensorcellment. "I tried to keep flying, but I've found my wings..." She trails off, searching for the right word, canting her head to one side, once more bringing dark waves into contact with chapped lips. They part before she speaks again, breathing out a soft, heartless laugh at the coming pun. "Holey, of late..."
She continues to scan Ash's face as though searching for something. It's clear that she remembers him - perhaps there is even the faintest hint that she been living her life in his name, riding the wave of their meeting. But at the same time, it's almost as though she stares at a stranger.
"I'm not sure I'm Amee any more."
Her voice, controlled until now, develops a sudden quiver as she says that. Something shines dimly, sadly, in the cerulean depths of her eyes.
As an uninvolved outsider, it is fairly interesting to see someone in this state; Ash has never witnessed such a breakdown before... The empty, painful existence of one who has so utterly failed themselves and others. She approaches at last, as the Frenchman figured would happen, drawing even with him. Instead of warmth to be found in the flamewielder's expression, he is instead mutely assessing the girl, that weak smile and her unfortunate appearance, "Your wings don't have holes." His manner is mild from hereon, but there is no sympathy, "And they're not broken."
Amy leans against the chain of the swing and the slender fighter drops back to stand nearby. "Let's not speak in metaphors tonight, and instead talk plainly." One mittened hand presses to his blue eyes, which are puffy and red. He inhales deeply, thin chest expanding, then forces the breath out with an audiable hiss. Afterwards, wool mitts drop to the black buttons of his coat, and he drapes the article on the girl's shoulders, whether she appreciates the gesture or not.
At least this way, he's not proposing the action, and granting her the opportunity to refuse.
Now with nothing but a knitted vest worn over a long-sleeved dress-shirt to protect himself from the elements, Ash drops resolutely back onto the wooden swing. A leg is swiftly crossed over the other. It's... it's not that bad really, he reasons. Provided that Crimson isn't out in the park for hours, then the Frenchman should be able to unhappily tolerate winter's chill.
Why does he even bother?
Because that's what he feels like doing right now.
"You'll always be Amee." Fair head twisting back to look up at her, something strange overcomes him, and the calm edge is lost. She... she's not going to cry, is she!? His grounded foot rocks the swing a little involuntarily, possibly disturbing the English woman, "I won't ask what happened." He decides, fearing that she'll be blubbering all over in moments, and yet his words do not sound as callous as the intentions behind them. Ash lifts his hand, sliding the mitten from it, and reaches to take one of her cold ones gently. His comfort isn't much, but considering who its from, this is leaps and bounds for the flamewielder.
Especially when he may not care at all...
Sympathy is of no help at all; Amy is doing a fine job of pitying her own torturous plight, without the tender ministrations of friends and acquaintances to assure that she wallows deep in the mire of misery. The Frenchman's flippant, matter-of-fact tone is far more well received - despite his wild nature, it draws her in some sense back to solid ground. It forces her to realise there is more, outside of her entrenched state, though it is a lesson that may be somewhat long in the learning.
"Then why can't I fly?" She responds to his initial words without thinking, the question a plaintive little thing, vulnerable, lilting off her tongue without a hint of irony. But then he insists that she not speak in such a way, and the weary Templar cannot restrain a laugh as realisation dawns. For a moment she sounds almost as she did during their last meeting, the sound bearing a touch of joy in its sardonicism, feminine and mature. It's spoiled by a sudden shudder as the frosty form of the iron chain finally burns through to the skin.
Beleaguered as she is, it's a little hard for the raven-haired woman to truly appreciate anything. But as the coat descends about her shoulders, she registers it with a vague nod, lifting her hands to unconsciously pull the welcome garment a little tighter, her body revelling in the warmth even if the message fails to outwardly register. Neither is there any blubbing; though whether he has dispelled it, or whether it was never to come is unclear.
'You'll always be Amee.'
That does draw a reaction, a faint cringe that sees Amy coil deeper inward. Past the half-opened coat, through the thin material of the camisole, her abdomen visibly twists as the words strike a sharp feeling in her gut. That, with the pressure upon the swing, is enough to stagger her a half-step backward, barely catching herself firm on weakened legs, a hand drifting outward in alarm to rebalance her.
In spite of the cold, her cheeks mottle with a faint flush. She's embarassed. It's a good sign - that she can feel such emotion shows a greater presence of mind that she seemed to bear just moments before. She does not even withdraw as her hand is taken, greeting the spreading of Ash's vital heat with a convulsion that she manages to control enough not to further shame herself.
"Thank you."
It comes after several lingering moments spent gazing across at the Frenchman, uncertainty playing in those otherwise void eyes until she finally speaks. It's an unnecessary, polite sort of a thing to say; but it's real, and it's heartfelt. It's enough to open the right kind of floodgates. A breath is released, tension leaving her torso that she did not fully comprehend as being there. The pain does not go, but it fades just enough.
"You know, I've been trying to live like you. Free as a drifting leaf. But every time I find release, I'm drawn back toward duty and responsibility." A smile brushes the bruised ruby of her lips, and she flicks a glance downward, searching for the glimmer of something about her neck that is oddly gone; she wears no cross. A frown creases her brow. "But that's the trick, isn't it? I try, and you simply are." She looks up, dispelling the expression with a twitching shake of the head, blinking her eyes as though to clear a sentiment that was not even shining through. "I'm an idiot."
It would appear that he is safe from a cascade of tears.
The metaphor continues briefly, and her question is graced with the ghost of a smile. To him, she's whining. It's that sad, sorry-for-oneself tone that he is utterly resiliant to until lilting laughter reaches his ears. Ash brushes the fringe from his freckled face, looking straight ahead to the playground itself, with its slides and various other climbing apparatuses. Idly, he notes a broken rung of one ladder, directly across from them. That is Amy's life, he thinks, wearily amused.
Her hand is like dousing his own in a bucket of ice water. It is unpleasant, but Ash won't let go until she pulls away. He rocks the swing slowly back and forth, "There's nothing to thank me for." The man replies to her finally, drawn to the heartfelt words and once again calm. Impassive, even. Don't think that he's rejecting the gratitude - that's not the case at all. Crimson is just certain that all he's said is something in which she's already unconsciously aware.
"Those who 'try' only do so because they don't expect to succeed." He exhales a soft snort of chilling laughter all his own, because Ash is a master of this. The Frenchman knows it all too well, but... he holds no attachment to the results of his half-hearted efforts. What little he does care for, he does not just 'try'. "But I don't think you're an idiot for reaching for an ideal. We all have dreams, we all have ambitions," The blue eyes brighten, his expression softening."
With a smooth adjusting of his position, Ash leans his back against the other chain, knee up on the wooden swing, arm outstretched, "Amee," He draws out her name, as always, "For now, you will be this, just as you are, for as long as you want to, until you decide that you'd rather not. Everything is a choice." The flamewielder's gaze means to lock with her own, to capture it and drag the girl back to earth, so she sees this world for what it is, all around her, "Even how you react is purely your choice." And the man smiles pleasantly, head tilting towards his shoulder, wondering how the girl may respond.
Hopefully not unfavourably.
Many would doubtless think Ash callous, even as he goes through the motions that in others would betray a soft and sympathetic nature. It is almost as though he acts according to an ever-shifting book of rules, abiding by a lawful chaos that should not be able to even exist, let alone persist throughout a life that is led otherwise unbeholden to expectations and mundane graces. Many have deemed Amy enigmatic - but compared to this man she is an open book.
His pronouncement regarding her idiocy holds a similar lack of regard, at first, though it is a direct and abrupt statement that she can empathise with. It rings with a biting edge much familiar to the Templar; and it's true. As much as the truth can hurt, a lesson missed is one that might never be learned. Her chin dips in acknowledgement, though the lowering of her gaze does hint at an emotional retreat, at least before Ash makes an unguarded admission that catches a renewed interest in his companion.
"Is that a fact?" She muses as she veers a curious glance up at the wielder of verdure flame. Drawn momentarily from her own inward darkness, she bites her tongue, but seems inclined to leave her shell in pursuit of this, at least. His dreams, his ambitions; what could they be?
But for now she is ensnared, drawn easily into the flamboyant Frenchman's wise offering. A choice. It draws a softening of her pale face, lips pouting outward to form a gentle opened purse as she considers the point. There is no great revelation in this - everything is indeed a choice. She knows it. She has made so many, with and without the gift of autonomy. Seizing it where necessary. She meets the cant of Ash's head with one of her own, upwards, a flare of dim pride emboldening her even as anguish compels her response.
"Then I fear I will choose poorly. I'm not sure I can trust myself."
She can already sense his answer. If not herself, then whom can she place her confidence in? To rely on others is a weakness in itself. This she also knows. And it brooks a chagrined smirk, one cheek dimpling as she glances astray, as though to hide the expression from him.
"But that's a battle I shall have to fight alone."
It fades as she speaks, and her mouth draws into a narrow line, held in taut repose a moment before she glances back to Ash with a sigh breathed through chill nostrils. Eyes regard him with a greater spark of life before, as though this resignation were in some way a comfort. Perhaps to her, the awareness of solitude imbues strength and determination rather than a deeper misery. It's a conundrum then, that at this time she reaches outward, probing for companionship and the secrets of another.
"What of you, Monsieur Crimson?" She savours the name, rolling it from her tongue with an almost native lilt, the very action lifting her mood. It was no great trial to hunt him down - their paths seem intertwined enough that she came to his full identity without so much as an iota of effort. "What does the future hold for such a whimsical dreamer?"
Was it unguarded, or a statement made with clear intention? Maybe the entire point was 'just because', and knowing Ash, it probably is. He's so easy-going and carefree even now, sitting here, holding her hand in his all the way over there. The slender man's arm is crooked slightly at the elbow, requiring obvious effort to keep it extended, so much that his shoulder is beginning to numb, but he'll live. He blinks with faux innocence at the ensuing question, and remains oblivious to her rising curiosity regarding him. All in due time, it would appear.
"Then you will be lost, if you cannot trust yourself and act accordingly," Of course, this comes as absolutely no surprise, and Ash shrugs. While it reeks of nonchalance, but there is something much deeper here, something to be found between his casual, simple words, "People won't carry you their whole lives - they simply can't." Even if they want to, more than anything in the world... "In the end, it's as you said: This battle is yours."
Insert a gentle, but amused giggle here, "You are the 'master of your own destiny'."
The pale man quirks a thin brow as he's addressed by his last name, but as she figured out during their last meeting that he's part of this world, this reality where the extraordinary exist, and understood him on a level that the mundane cannot, Amy could have easily tracked down his vitals. "Saa, I'm not one for formalities, Amee." A pause for thoughtful consideration, "And I'd rather not know what the future holds - what would be the point in dreaming?" He lies, for Ash is not a dreamer. The flamewielder is something far more certain.
And he's not about to tell anyone.
It's something of a mystery to the Templar, that she chose to use the formal patterning of Ash's name, though in any case it seems to run deeper than a mere tease. For all that she finds him fascinating, even alluring; and certainly she does, for there are few whose company she would actively seek in her fragile state of mind - in spite of it, her own interpersonal wariness communicates a sense of danger around the Frenchman. To strive to know him is to seek intimacy with the unknown. As though she were dancing flirtatiously upon the edge of a brewing volcano, and it were wise to keep at least a modicum of distance.
Still, she breathes a laugh at his protest, a faint shake of the head accompanying the nearly silent offering as he mulls over her question. It was phrased just so for a reason, and perhaps he knows that. Maybe it is why he skirts the issue so completely, floating through her mild inquisition. Amy's head cants to one side, and after a considerate moment she gently pulls her hand from his, sparing a smile as she folds it inside his coat.
"Then long may we both dream. I don't think I want to know about the future, either. Would you say that's the route to mastering one's destiny? After all, how can we be carried down a road that does not exist...?" She lets the question hang, hearing an echo of his earlier giggle, letting her gaze hang about his face again, taking in the small details. Wondering now, as the darkness continues to broil in the pit of her stomach, as wonder itself is threatened by the black, just what it is she sees in this anomalous man. Is it simply that he is so unique? No, she decides. There /is/ something deeper.
Her lips part as she sighs, rolling her neck to ease mounted tension, sending that still-lingering trickle of blood streaming across her throat, leaving an appropriately crimson trail across her pale flesh. It draws an involuntary shiver despite the borrowed jacket. Still mindless of the seeping liquid, she draws herself up before the Frenchman, as though gathering her listing strength.
"I should rest," she says somewhat hesitantly, a quiver entering her voice for the first time in several blissful minutes at the thought of straying from proximity with her eccentric companion. She may later blame her dishevelled, ruinous state for what she says next; for the fact she chooses to wear her heart upon her sleeve. "Will you walk with me, Ash?" In the now, it is spoken innocently enough, a hint of some long-lost inner child surfacing in widened eyes and the inadvertent trembling of flushed lips. "I... don't want to be alone just yet..."
The question hangs, and it is heavy, but Ash grins in a brazen way, stating clearly and with confidence, "By building your own road." At least he doesn't dance around purely philosopical topics.
And yes, the path is just that simple.
His hand is released, and the cool slip of her fingers leaves him to hold nothing but air stirred in the girl's wake. Only when the Frenchman drops his arm does he realise just how sore his shoulder happens to be, visibly wincing at a sudden, sharp pain. It breaks his gaze from Amy's for just a moment, blue eyes observing the numb flexing of his fingers until they've overcome the sensation. Ash afterwards tucks away the fringe of platinum blonde behind his ears, sorting his scarf, then reclaiming the orange mitten on his knee. He doesn't replace it upon his hand just yet.
As the Templar fills his vision once again with her unkempt appearance, she's bleeding. He would wager that the cap decorating her ebony hair isn't just for vanity's sake, but will Ash say nothing? The flamewielder really is a strange individual - Amy is wise in maintaining her distance, even though she may not understand exactly why it is a necessity.
Obviously, he agrees with the sentiment that she should rest, and Ash himself could probably do with a couple hours of sleep. He rubs over his face, blackened nails disappearing into near-white hair, followed by knuckling at his right eye, which kinda just makes the whole thing worse. It stings, too. If it weren't for her tone, this would be where Crimson would likely bid the English woman goodnight and be on his way, allowing her to borrow his coat until next they meet. His eyebrows lift as though he were stunned by the request, but it isn't... tedious or anything. The flamboyant Frenchman isn't going to say no.
The lean man slides off from the swing, chains jingling in protest, his height hardly impressive in comparison. Slouching lazily, Ash smiles faintly, "Well, I certainly don't know where I'm going, Amee." She looks capable of handling a gentle tease, even given her fear; his words are a comforting - unintentional - and pleased acquiescence. The blonde certainly is an amiable fellow, now and always.
Amy is starting to look far better than before.
Sometimes a frankness of being can be a welcome thing; especially among individuals so often guarded as these. And though the admission of her weakness, of her desire for companionship, takes a toll upon the young woman's pride, it also eases a burden that she has been bearing ever since... the incident. In some way, the invitation to Ash is her way of displacing it, spreading her damaged wings to soar on an entirely different current. Were she not still cold, she would be blushing - as it is, she simply smiles as her plea is answered. A held breath is released, hunched shoulders relaxing as she shifts closer to the standing man.
"You wanted to dispense with formalities," she murmurs at his teasing protest, tipping her head, the stray droplet of blood finally falling to spatter softly against the tarmac path. Her gaze follows it without particular distraction, flickering from and back to Ash with a casual rapidity, her attention knowing where it wishes to be. As though the loss of that crimson bauble were the one thing preventing her mood from lifting, a musical lilt touches her tone as she finishes, "So I think, this once, the lady can lead."
"Even if this lady is a bit of mess." She lifts her chin with that, a dainty and feminine gesture when coupled with the softening of her smile, impish dimples denting her cheeks. It lends her an easy, natural beauty that was so tainted before - an effect not merely of outward appearance, but the dulling of an inner flame that at least burns a little brighter now. It may be an act, but if so, it is an earnest one.
Though she may have maintained her distance to this point, the Templar lingers with a weight of expectation, allowing a moment to pass in silence if necessary before she punctuates her spoken words with the upward crook of an arm - offering it to the scion of verdure flame in a true reversal of roles. It is notably the limb upon her better side, unstained and less dishevelled; if her concealing beret were removed, it would be clear she tends to sleep upon her right flank.
The left, is reserved for Ash, if he'll have it.
"Well, shall we, sir?"
But the burden is only eased by Amy herself, for he is not here to assist her, or coddle the English woman. If this is what the Templar has sought, she has found it, and the Frenchman smiles plainly at her admission, the acknowledgement of her appearance. His blue eyes further vanish in a secretive way - perhaps he thinks that she is more than 'just a mess', and Ash is not tactless. He was raised with a measure of respect and manners, thus saying nothing, save for the soft utterance of a feminine giggle.
How can an act be so earnest? It is a mystery, even to one so frequently enigmatic as the flamewielder. With enough effort, his own falsities can be detected, once the layers have been peeled away. His 'acts' are never honest.
The light blues reappear, lidded and content, and his expression grows more pleasant in response. Ash accepts the offered arm graciously, unopposed to defying the gender-assigned roles, folding his mittened hands around at her elbow to rest. Amy is still bleeding - he would be a fool not to notice, but the freckle-faced one once again does not draw attention to the loss of essence. It is as if he doesn't care in the slightest.
Or does he?
When in motion, the effeminate man purses his thin lips together briefly, then asks slowly, his curiosity unabashed, "I'm not asking what," Ash holds true to his earlier declaration that he would not pry, "Saa, but I wonder who did this." How peculiar this is for Crimson, pursuing an answer. Pandora's Box may be in hand and opened, releasing the seven great evils into the world, but what is good without its great rival?
What is good, at all?
The Frenchman's intrigued pronouncement draws an intake of breath from the Templar as she otherwise calmly and gently pulls him into a steady pace alongside her. Stormy eyes flicker askance, peering up at him with that queer, impenetrable darkness, though it would take a far less astute observer to realise that fear and uncertainty beset the young woman. She swallows tightly, and dispels the unease with a shake of her head, bidding a secretive smile into place. Assuming that act - an act which is sincere because it is who she wants to be, who she would be if she were capable.
"Perhaps there are things we should never know about each other," Amy softly says, an edge of any kind only distantly apparent at the outer limits of her admirably-controlled tone. She may not be the most powerful of warriors - but the raven-haired barmaid possesses a strength that is not lightly broken. That she is so cracked and barren communicates well enough the severity of which she will not speak. "Secrets," she glances away, across the shadowy shapes of trees lurking around them, "Make life more exciting."
She almost seems inclined to leave it at that, until suddenly her gaze whips back to him, the rapid motion causing dark bangs to flick at her shoulders. Perhaps thinking herself too cold, her eyes gain a little warmth, barely visible in the moonlight. "You don't need to listen," she explains, in equal parts incisively observant and somehow considerate, "And I don't need to talk. I'm glad you're here; and I think, for now, that's quite enough. Mais non?"
Her lips quirk upward, another dimpled display from her cheeks belying the sadness that still twists about the wounded Templar. Subconsciously, her arm tightens, drawing Ash a little closer to her, and she will offer nothing more until she has to, diverting her gaze to the path, content to maintain this little intimacy as they walk through the shadows together...
She will not lean upon him. But still, it is far better than walking alone.
Log created on 14:38:28 02/04/2011 by Amy, and last modified on 15:26:57 02/05/2011.