@inglacial ... continued
They always take his words at surface level, but Sylvain is different. Rafayel slips his hands into his pockets, shoulders slumped, his gaze drawled and lazy as he watches the heavy frame of the painting he'd came to deliver. His fingers idly trace the patterns on canvas. His strokes are always too deliberate to be wayward, but too fast to be careful. Few people know how to read them, though. Even fewer people noticed what the red pigment on the canvas truly is.
The scent of paint still clings to it. It's fresh.
"You've been more talkative lately." Rafayel whispers, "Finally starting to feel lonely? I can be good company if you say the word."
He lets out a slow exhale. He once believed in fairytales. All Lemurians do. Stories they were told by their parents since their youth, stories that ended in unanimous happiness where the heroes triumph and the monsters die. But as soon as he set foot on land he knows its the heroes in cages and the monsters who barter them off like a rare piece of art at an exhibition.
"But you're right," He smirks, adjusting the painting against the wall so it doesn't slide to the ground. He wipes a smudge of red paint off his cheek before he flippantly flicks a napkin to clean it off his thumb. "Even a dumber fish wouldn't bite on the same bait twice. S'pose it's the same for hackers, huh? When it comes to fishing?"
