[She's a sight, that's for certain. For good or ill, Lucinda appears at odds with the rest of the town, a place that seems so idyllic that even the slightest darkened demeanor feels as though it doesn't belong — like a scrap of cloth hewn into the wrong tapestry, the fabric misaligned. Weir is the same way, though perhaps even more so. Bafflingly, the town takes to him. And bafflingly—though maybe not as much, since she is kinder at her core—the townspeople of Turner’s Vale take to her, too. They ask about the flowers inked on her skin. Remark on the beauty of her raven-black hair. Wonder at her story, and how she arrived here, and how she knows the huntsman so well enough that she might take up space in his abode. Scandalous? Well, maybe minds don’t work quite that way in this town anymore, but it is enough to make imaginations run wild.
Though those imaginations would be put to rest if they saw how the man interacted with her, not so much a smile as he meets her halfway up the path, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. A hunting knife hangs in its sheath, latched onto his belt on one hip; another with an ebony hilt, of similar size, resting on the opposite side.
“Welcome home,” she says, and to hear that is so foreign that he doesn’t know what to do with it, instead glancing up at her as he wends up, up the hill that eventually leads to his front door. Weir makes a low noise of affirmation, adjusting his satchel.]
Have you eaten supper yet?
[If he looks like he’s been foraging about beyond the entrance of the northern woods, where he would have met her if she wasn’t late, then yes. He has been. His cheekbones are tinged slightly from the cool breeze, gradually picking up its intensity as the evening drags on.]
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Though those imaginations would be put to rest if they saw how the man interacted with her, not so much a smile as he meets her halfway up the path, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. A hunting knife hangs in its sheath, latched onto his belt on one hip; another with an ebony hilt, of similar size, resting on the opposite side.
“Welcome home,” she says, and to hear that is so foreign that he doesn’t know what to do with it, instead glancing up at her as he wends up, up the hill that eventually leads to his front door. Weir makes a low noise of affirmation, adjusting his satchel.]
Have you eaten supper yet?
[If he looks like he’s been foraging about beyond the entrance of the northern woods, where he would have met her if she wasn’t late, then yes. He has been. His cheekbones are tinged slightly from the cool breeze, gradually picking up its intensity as the evening drags on.]