[He hesitates a breath when she opens the door, warm light flooding out onto her porch and bathing him in a triangle of it- like a barrier to the darkening skies signaling dusk. But it is not that which catches him but for the look of her, softer than he's ever seen- even that night in Ishgard- and welcoming. Unbidden his tail flattens to his side- indecision and uncertainty curling inside of his gut like nausea, bidding him to run. To turn back now whilst he still can, as though he is on the precipice of yet another dangerous cave rather than on the front-step of a comrade's home.
It lasts only a moment, that hesitation, for his stubborn pride has always won the day- even when in doing so it is a detriment. He steps inside and stares straight ahead, fixating on a point on the wall as she speaks. A part of him thinks to mention that removing his footwear will hardly do her impression of his current state any favors... but she would have known- and likely would have been the same at one point- so he does not say anything, making to oblige. And when she moves behind him to take his coat, he cannot help the flicker of tension that slithers down his spine, ears flicking up and backwards before straightening again. That he is ill-at-ease is obvious, that he is fighting to maintain a facade regardless even moreso.]
Escorting a merchant to Gridania. [Is all he grunts as he undoes his gloves so she can take his jacket without issue, wincing at the unexpected soreness that arises from the motion.] Wanted someone to keep the Ixali at bay. [He adds as a gracious point of elaboration, choosing not to add he ended up all but abandoning them as soon as the gate and the Wailers protecting it were within sight, payment be damned.] Not that we saw so much as a scratch mark in the dirt. [He mutters in afterthought as he finally drags his footwear off and sets it aside as bid, leaving his gloves draped in the heap with less care than he ought to have.] Where can I wash up?
it's me. in the void.
It lasts only a moment, that hesitation, for his stubborn pride has always won the day- even when in doing so it is a detriment. He steps inside and stares straight ahead, fixating on a point on the wall as she speaks. A part of him thinks to mention that removing his footwear will hardly do her impression of his current state any favors... but she would have known- and likely would have been the same at one point- so he does not say anything, making to oblige. And when she moves behind him to take his coat, he cannot help the flicker of tension that slithers down his spine, ears flicking up and backwards before straightening again. That he is ill-at-ease is obvious, that he is fighting to maintain a facade regardless even moreso.]
Escorting a merchant to Gridania. [Is all he grunts as he undoes his gloves so she can take his jacket without issue, wincing at the unexpected soreness that arises from the motion.] Wanted someone to keep the Ixali at bay. [He adds as a gracious point of elaboration, choosing not to add he ended up all but abandoning them as soon as the gate and the Wailers protecting it were within sight, payment be damned.] Not that we saw so much as a scratch mark in the dirt. [He mutters in afterthought as he finally drags his footwear off and sets it aside as bid, leaving his gloves draped in the heap with less care than he ought to have.] Where can I wash up?