“I fear,”
Thor’s meaty hand clapped onto Cabal’s shoulder, muscle holding bone. There’s laughter in his pale blue eye, but it glints like the edge of a sword, too.
“You have misunderstood my intentions, or that I have perhaps not been as diligent in upholding your safety within these boundaries as I should have. You need not make oaths to me, Necromancer, for I swore to you when we met that should you defy the trust Darcy has urged us to place in you, there would be nowhere in the endless galaxies you could ever escape from me.”
With a heaving sigh, Thor collapses his considerable size onto the stool next to Cabal’s. It had been, previously, Darcy’s, and it groaned under the new demands of weight withheld.
“I did not seek you out this night for conflict, Cabal, but I see clearly now how it has sought you out in nights before.
And I am no closer to the answers I did seek.”
Cabal stiffened as Thor’s hand landed like an anchor on his shoulder-- his own hand moving instinctively to the switchblade in his pocket. The violence does not come, however, and Cabal is left tense as Thor gives his wordy reassurances.
His hands return to the bar-top as Thor heaves himself into his seat with all the grace of a warhorse. In an attempt to steady them, he finishes his tonic-- grimacing at the burn as it slides down his throat.
It is little comfort, but gives him a reason to collect his thoughts.
[how much powder could Darcy’s nose possibly need?]
“You have a way about you-- a warrior’s stance.” He says without hint of derision. Like commenting ‘oh, it’s sunny today’ when it is in fact sunny. Thor happened to look like a G-d no matter what he was wearing. It practically oozed off of him.
By contrast, alcohol burned in Cabal’s veins, making him feel bold.
“I do not know that I have answers, but you may ask so long
as you provide the drinks. I will do my best to answer.”
