’ have you ever been to an
asylum, caelan? filled with mutes, they are. ’he mutters coyly from over her shoulder, colorless hands shrugged around her as he carelessly piggybacks the woman, red eyes gazing upon the horizon before them (a spasm of color: orange & violet alike). cold breath stems from his throat, and he speaks once more.
’ —it reminds me of you. ‘
Virid woodlands about them, their sallow song a susurrance nearly lost upon the breeze, and a gaze of rended steel never leaves its station on the narrow horizon. Natheless, an umber brow quirks ere the ghost of a scoff breathes past her lips in the wake of his statement.
Arms slung about her, what little weight he bears on her back is but a meager contribution to the hefty burden of skelenyte armor donned by the wayward warrior — a moment later her gaze shifts over her shoulder to meet hues of crimson, arched brow the only response offered in turn. A few more strides after gaze returns forward, only for her head to dip suddenly to allow for a branch to pass over her shoulder (and straight into the face of the man currently latched to her.)
Without verbal riposte is she; though not without retribution (and subsequent humor.)