somnianpcsâ:
   a furrow creased his brow. tapping the side of his spoon against the edge of his stolen plate, he considered arkhamâs words. failure meant giving up. had arkham given up ?   â well, â   hĂĽvard says,   â i suppose thereâs a lot of that going around these days.  â   itâs a small comfort, to speak like this.   â just last week bjorn came stomping into the guild knee deep covered in pig shit. you could smell his failure from here to the isles. â   his nose scrunches up at the rancid memory, but his smile canât be wiped from his face.   â but, you wouldnât have guessed it  âââ next day he went right back out to try again, the mad bastard. â   this is said with more weight despite  the  shrug of a shoulder, the implication let go between them as if on a sigh.
   A snort leaves him, exhale rough from his nose, at the mention of failure going around. He feels it all too keenly, though he hadnât been there for bjornâs unfortunate return. His nose crinkles at the thought of being covered to his knees in pig shit, but frankly, it wouldnât be the worst thing to happen to him. âHeâs a stubborn bastard,â Arkham agrees, sullenness returning to him despite the quick uptick in his lips. His fingers curl around his drink, wishing the mead would cloud his head enough to not deal with it. He knows he canât give up, but his legs feel like lead, and his breathing hasnât felt right since the spider. âSomethinâs wrong with me this time, brother,â He confesses, lowering his voice for a semblance of privacy. âI donât know what to do.â







