send ‘!!’ and I’ll write a para description of your muse from mine’s perspective
Perhaps she’s just projecting -- Samson’s features are, it seems, sharp and clean as a younger man’s, his lack of self-care to blame for the scruff and the gruff that shines through most brilliantly in the rags the Inquisitor has given the man to wear. She considers, sometimes, bringing him something nicer, something that’s deep and red and soft and might suit his personality better. But he’d never accept a gift from her, oh no.
He’s still proud, and it shows in his stature, his chin held level and shoulders back, ready to square with her any time she approaches him for any reason. His pride and sense of self are, for what they’re worth, intact, though he seems oddly content to cower here as a half-prisoner, wandering the courtyard and critiquing the soldiers that were, in essence, his enemies to their benefit. He gives good tips, good council, and Inara could see how he might have made a fine Commander in his own right.
She doesn’t know. Maybe it’s his eyes, the way they linger on the burning sword on several shields among the men, maybe it’s the way his lips twitch when he hears folks whisper about him as they pass like he’s got something to say (though he never seems to say it). Something, something about him seems so sad, so heartbreakingly twisted and shut-out that she finds herself wanting to hug him, hold him, like her touch could make a difference.
It’s foolish, but she can’t pretend she doesn’t feel it, all the same.
