❖ forsakendaggers
Erinuil made an indignant noise, somewhere between a grunt and a growl. He’d been pacing the perimeter of camp for quite some time now, mumbling to himself. His hands had folded and unfolded and refolded themselves behind his back several times, occasionally pulling at the staff affixed there as if it would help him think any better.
“We need to talk,” he tried, before sticking out his tongue. That sounded too unfortunately familiar. “Do you have a moment?” Too formal.
Was he supposed to be informal? How did he go about this? The hunter had expertly evaded him almost unintentionally; he’d have to be delicate about approaching this.
“Kellan,” he said, this time with a little more determination in his voice. “I want to talk to you.”
Yes, that sounded good. He repeated it. “Kellan. I want to talk to you.”
He nodded. He finally had his approach. “Kellan,” he repeated. “I want to talk to you.”
Then, as if the Fates had been deigning it time for a comedy act, Erinuil had stumbled into Kellan’s back. “Dirthara-ma!” he hissed, before backing up and blushing. Of course. The Fates had a sense of humor. He wondered if Kellan had heard him or not, and if not, gave the brunette a chance to flee.
Erinuil would have preferred to do this on his own terms. This did not stop the blond from offering Kellan an amiable smile.