Sep 6, 2015
( casixt )
Hay straws stick to his boots, mud freckles to his knee, and a hand waves away the horse stink from his nose. His expression looks as if sketched by a quill made of disdain: nostrils tucked in a scowl and lips scrunched tight, cheeks swollen as if holding breath. The disgust is unmistakable on him – not that he indulges deeply in all things disgusting; had he not been trailing Blackwall like a courser trails a hart, not a single toe would have made it past the barn door.
“You – up there! Have you seen a big, hairy cretin milling about down here? About ye tall, beard like a soiled mop?”
