11-06-2018, 07:31 AM
[align=center][div style="max-width: 360px; line-height:120%; font-family: calibri; font-size: 8.5pt; text-align: justify; margin-bottom:5px"][ ❖ ] ;; – “If ya 'ave nutin better ta do den bug da crap outta me then leave,” sharp the twist of dark lips, paws stilling where they had come to rest atop a few of the jars set about him. A great many were simple ingredients, not all meant for this lesson though he had thought to make a test of this, get better a grasp on the things those here knew of. Tap of claw along the cork stopper, no sound drawn from such action. Upon the tip of tongue words lingered, comeback that might once have risen easily, though clear was the lack of fire in the youth.
Funny was it, this son of Pincher Roux that had readily called Bastille bastard to his very face, enjoyed teasing and needling him when chance arose, found such the easiest fashion to pass time in confinement, stood against those deemed family with no care to consequence behind it. Short was the life he had lead and yet his actions spoke of something more, a child fuelled by the heavy heat of hatred, cooled now until it seemed nothing more then warm coals. Almost was such enough to make him laugh, the thought he was lesser then what he had once been, the forced process of growing up shifting the minimal view he was presented with. But within throat died such a sound, restricting as he found nothing but the taste of ash in the back of his throat.
“What's ya name,” lift of dark eye, focused upon the lion, brief this break of attention before it touched on the bottles once more. Recognition was there yet there was no name to place to the face, nothing upon which to tack the minimal information presented to him. Clear was Silus' want to ignore Radeken, her comments nothing more then a nuisance he wished to be rid of, the humour within it lost upon him. Better would her efforts have gone over if her target had been any other, given nothing more then a moment of his time, enough he made it clear he thought little of her rather pitiful attempts.
Funny was it, this son of Pincher Roux that had readily called Bastille bastard to his very face, enjoyed teasing and needling him when chance arose, found such the easiest fashion to pass time in confinement, stood against those deemed family with no care to consequence behind it. Short was the life he had lead and yet his actions spoke of something more, a child fuelled by the heavy heat of hatred, cooled now until it seemed nothing more then warm coals. Almost was such enough to make him laugh, the thought he was lesser then what he had once been, the forced process of growing up shifting the minimal view he was presented with. But within throat died such a sound, restricting as he found nothing but the taste of ash in the back of his throat.
“What's ya name,” lift of dark eye, focused upon the lion, brief this break of attention before it touched on the bottles once more. Recognition was there yet there was no name to place to the face, nothing upon which to tack the minimal information presented to him. Clear was Silus' want to ignore Radeken, her comments nothing more then a nuisance he wished to be rid of, the humour within it lost upon him. Better would her efforts have gone over if her target had been any other, given nothing more then a moment of his time, enough he made it clear he thought little of her rather pitiful attempts.