drowmare
❝staring at it like that long enough might sharpen it, ❞ damira says flitting her eyes to the blade in the human's lap. a violet and sparkling spectral hand floats over to the drow and pops a scavenged berry into her mouth. ❝or you'll get older... i'm almost interested to see which happens first.❞
“One is far more likely than the other.” Varre doesn't miss a beat, his reply coming without so much as a glance upwards towards Damira. Someone familiar with the knight might think his lack of surprise a testament to his situational awareness, but truly? It was merely that the old soldier was unbothered. The mirth is clearly seen in his smile should the drow catch his profile, and it takes but a moment before he starts running the whetstone along the edge of the one of the twinblade's edge. The sound is sharp, the stone and blade almost striking a spark: firm and steady. Not unlike the man himself. “We have been through a lot,” There's a fondness to his tone that ought to make Damira question whether he's talking about her, but his gaze being set on the sharpening blade all but confirms the recipient. “Lost myself in old memories for but a moment, though it's nothing for you to worry about, Lady Damira. It'll be some time before I grow senile on you.”