#🟦 (DESTRIAN); ask

[multiimistakes]

you keep opening doors. peeking in. reaching through to get what you want, and that puts you in my path. — Kenny

With the way the man blinked so tiredly, slowly-—one might have mistaken his reaction for one of whom hadn't grasped the statement. After a beat, lips part and he looks none too amused by either the interruption or the interrupter.

❝ Fate is plenty cruel to me on the daily, but I can't say it's ever felt inclined to send me someone to give me a taste of my own verbal medicine. ❞ he was from goddamn medieval times but he was no fool, he knew even now his manner of speaking could feel stiff and antiquated-—overly cryptic at times.

❝ Do we exchange titles now? Greetings? Or must I answer your riddles three? That's what it seems like when you accost me with talks of metaphorical doors and fateful meetings. ❞

[multiimistakes]

there is no death.

Destrian felt seen and it didn't invoke any sort of warm and fuzzy feeling. Like most emotion nowadays, it merely settled over him like an uncomfortably scratchy and thin blanket; he didn't like it.

Somewhere deep in him wants to laugh, a bitter and hysterical sort of laugh at some sort of joke she hadn't even meant to tell. He just stands there though, as still and neutral and dull as one might expect a corpse to be were it able to walk and talk. Somthing quick and witty and all too dry sits on his tongue-—something about how he could argue if only because he'd woken up from such a thing again not more than a day ago, he decides against it in favor of something a bit more toned down.

❝-—Depends on your definition on what death actually is, I suppose... ❞

[multiimistakes]

Destrian Andryt TAG DROP