"...this must be a lot to process."
i don't understand anything.
durin's hands fidget and fuss with themselves, fingers picking at the fabric of the white gloves that cover up thickly-scaled hands beneath. his head hurts. everything hurts, actually, but not in a way he can meaningfully place or articulate.
❛ it... is, but... i just don't understand... why they called me an evil dragon, but brought me back anyway. ❜ there's no way for varka to have an answer for that, but the question falls past his lips before he could catch it. more idle musings than an honest question. ❛ and the world has changed so much. i don't understand at all. i don't belong here. ❜
he never did. but that's neither here nor there. he knows now that the grassy-green paradise he dreamed of was nothing but a farce; that his dance with dvalin was indeed one of needless destruction and not a tragedy of two ill-fated lovers destined to die together; and that the only truth he ever knew was the vague memories of khaenri'ah before his mother sent him on his rampage. so how is he supposed to live in this new, modern day, in a world that loathes him? dragon of calamity, how do you survive in a world you destroy with your every move?
there's a naïve voice in his head that tells him that there's always space to make new memories. it doesn't sound like him at all.
❛ ...you are friends with that bard, are you not? can you tell me if he is well? does he speak of me? ❜
and that's the first thing he asks when given the chance to ask anything.
