MARTYRBLED.
Enshrouded in worn robes, they looked much akin to a Father or cleric whilst standing in the midst of the open Garden; practically unphased by the chill of the night air, their fingers extend out to brush over the petals of a slightly impaired rose. An idle gesture but they knew that within minutes the floral of choice will look happy & healthy as new. Hand lowering itself back underneath the uppermost layer of cloth, they turned their head to finally regard their company with a proper greeting, lashes halfway lowered over gilded stare — hood casting a shadow over freckled visage.
❛ Indeed so. They’re quite resilient, these beauties. Happy, too. ❜
Tired & narrowed eyes watch carefully, gray flecks amid a clear blue seeming much like a deep pool whilst Richard stares. He could raise the alarm, certainly, call for some aid to escort the wanderer away however, he finds little harm in the situation. An over - abundance of confidence, as well, solidifies his belief that he could handle any potential danger ( & he assumes too much on appearance in this matter, too, crafting assurances in the back of his mind that are but strength - giving falsities ). Richard raises a brow, tone pleasant with his eventual remarks. ❝ Indeed. They will keep their petals open long into the frosts, especially these that are so well - cared for. ❞ York straightens, leaving the distance between them remaining. ❝ What are you called, stranger ? ❞














