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Someone like me.

[ He gives his head a quiet shake. It's true there's no escaping the assassin he was or the supernatural gifts he'd been given by the Outsider, that self-satisfied god. True that after all these years, there are times Daud feels he'll never stop being the monster he became. ]

I'd say that's for the best.

You must have other ways of passing your time.

Nothing half so interesting as this.

[Truthfully, he fascinates her; whatever else he may be, he's not from Sleepy Hollow, and that in itself makes him a novelty. Atop that, though? Layers of mystery. A hedge maze made of brambles.

Perhaps she's a little romantic when mentally describing others. He could simply be a curt stranger, and she'll lose interest - on to the next sparkling thing to come her way.]

Tell me something. Tell me a story about where you've been, what you've seen.

[Her tone isn't one of eager desperation, but rather lazy amusement. There's likely a glass of something rich and heady in one hand, and her chin in the other. She expects to be entertained; feels entitled to it, even.]

[ He's known her kind before, or thinks he has. The ones with more money or status than they know what to do with (even in places like this, small and relatively sheltered, they exist); the ones who expect the world to bend and scrape before their feet. He bristles against that breed of entitlement. Years ago (even now, on better nights), he wouldn't have tolerated it. But tonight, keeping anyone's company is better than being left with his own thoughts. And it's almost pleasant to sit inside, among others in this warmth. Almost pleasant not to feel so isolated. ]

I didn't come here to keep you entertained.

[ Didn't come here for any particular reason; as with so many other places, he's just passing through. Nor was there any real sharpness to his words. What he'd spoken was an observation, little more. For a moment he lets silence linger, glancing around the room. ]

And I'm not one for telling stories.

[ Not usually. Something in his voice, though, the tone or the slight hesitation, suggests that he might, just might be willing to give it a try. Only for tonight. Only while he has this moment out of the cold. ]

[ How fascinating he is! She has never been not adored before, has she? If he had meant to put her off, he has done it in just such a way that she is now only that much more eager for his attention.

Ah, the sad truth of it: if she is someone of wealth and status - as even she thinks she is - she's a queen among bumpkins. Sleepy Hollow is a small place, where people lead small lives. Her money is wealth by comparison rather than by the actual standards of the wealthy; her clothes are clean and not roughspun, her house large and able to host a fine crowd like tonight, her (father's) fields full of crops and beasts. She is a big fish in a little pond, and one who has no idea that the ocean exists.

It hasn't ruined her entirely; she's charming and friendly enough, and in paying such close attention now, she sees that small gap in his defenses. Her smile widens and she cants her head oh-so-cajolingly. ]

But on a night like this, with the fires glowing and the cold kept at bay...why, it's just the sort of night for stories.

[ She has irked him, she thinks, by making him shoulder the whole burden of entertainment. How to ease that particular wound? ]

We'll make a fair trade of it. Tell me a tale, and I'll tell you one in return.

[ 'It's just the sort of night for stories.' He returns his gaze to her, seeking intent in her expression. If she hasn't precisely landed on his thoughts - for Daud, it's more that this is a time for shared voices, for words spun beyond his inward memories - she's come close. And hearing the words out loud makes him just a little more likely to linger, to speak.

Still, he studies her. He'd say she's had an easy life, relatively speaking. Has likely been a bright spot in this community. And she isn't hopelessly dull. Something in the way she watches him bespeaks a level of discernment, and he can't say for certain, but her offer of a trade just may have been strategic (or it was a happy coincidence, a show of country exuberance in the spirit of this festive night). She's not one to be wholly dismissed; not just yet. ]

You strike a reasonable bargain. I won't promise you a well-told story.

But I'll give it a try.

[ He takes a drink from his glass, the alcohol burning familiarly, the warmth of it welcome. And he watches her. ]

[ Her smile brightens in a mixture of pleasure and triumph. For a fleeting moment, she thought he might deny her request, and she would have to be off to listen to one of the same, tired stories from the same rough and tumble boys. Her father has been throwing these parties her entire life, and at the end the boys always ride off with more willing girls, whooping and laughing down into the valley, leaving her to feel...

Disappointed.

She can't go riding off, not when her virtue is worth more than a night on horseback.

It's the strangers that pass through that she treasures. The stories they tell. Some are dull, like that wretched Ichabod Crane, who cares only for money and the food it will buy, but this man...why, he seems dangerous. Mysterious. She's young enough to still have fantasies about riding off with dangerous men when the safe ones are too cowardly to invite her, and level-headed enough to know that she'll have to settle for what stories he has to tell.

So she draws closer, and dutifully offers to refill his glass before nodding encouragingly. ]

If it's true, it should be told faithfully, and then it will turn out well.

Edited 2018-09-14 16:31 (UTC)

[ She gets a huff in response, a sound of disbelief, and he looks away from the woman. He can't quite believe that's all it takes. Certainly can't believe that most stories told are true.

Daud's never made a practice of telling stories. Of late, it's been a rare occasion to speak with anyone, at all. Which most days is the way he likes it. Which is certainly safest. Which he's learned to live with.

Still, it can't hurt to say a few words. Speak of encounters less likely to give him away (though young as she is, living in damned near the middle of nowhere, is there really any risk of recognition? even in stories, it's likely she hasn't heard of him; which is a strange thought, after all those years of renown; which is a welcome thought, now that he wishes to leave it all behind). Spin words to keep himself occupied, then let her own stories fill his concentration.

All the while drinking something - ale, is it? a sharp cider? - not entirely unpleasant. All while keeping warm and putting off the question of where he plans to sleep tonight, and whether he'll move on in the morning or stick around this area for a few more days.

He nods for the refill, dimly appreciates the gesture. And he thinks, pulls through the strands of what he's known and what might best be told. What he can put into the form of a story without telling too much. What can feign to have an ending. ]

What do you know about witches?

[The question garners something different to the coquettishness she has heretofore displayed: a conspiratorial smile. It's the same reaction he would earn from anyone else in this dreamy town, a place built on the back of wars with Natives, the French, Hessians, and the very wilderness itself. For you see, of all the terrors that came before Sleepy Hollow, and all the stories that abound here, none titillates the Dutch who inhabit it so well as tales of the supernatural.

Witches (and headless riders, of course) first and foremost.

And being a girl of (some) education, she has read every possible book that one can find on the subject of things that haunt the woods in the dead of night, and begged for many a story from old women at their quilting.]

I know a tale or two on the subject.

[She's careful. Bad things happen to women who know too much about pacts with the devil. Even so, she can't hide the glint of excitement in her eyes, or how her expression has become rapt and focused on Daud. There will be no escaping her for the rest of the night now.]

[ She's curious, and perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. It's true that most who live in isolated towns are starved for stories of any sort. And she'd been the one to ask for a tale in the first place. He watches for a moment more, then scans the room before he beginning, keeping his voice low. ]

Near where I'm from, there was a coven. They called themselves the Brigmore Witches. Hid away in a decaying mansion and made a life according to their own terms. Mostly, they kept to themselves. Brought in a new member from time to time, visited the city for supplies or to meet with old acquaintances.

To most people, they were just a handful of eccentric women, maybe too headstrong for their own good. But some of us saw their rituals. Knew what they were up to. The ways they could draw vines out of nothing. The ways they could turn the roots of trees active, almost as if the roots had grown a mind of their own.

They devoted their rituals to I can't say what. Nature itself, maybe. The Outsider, in part.

[ He gives her a close look at the Outisder's name, gauging any reaction she might or might not have. He can't say whether word of that particular god has ever reached this part of the land. Knows that at some point along his journey the name of the Outsider began to cull only blank stares, sometimes unknowing curiosity; of late, he's met few who'd heard of the black-eyed bastard. ]

And over time, they came to want something more.

[She has so many questions; how she would like him to linger on details, explain the hows and whys of the abilities shared by these eccentrics! Instead, she merely watches him raptly, holding her tongue for later, because this story is not just about the witches, but surely, surely an encounter he, himself, has had with them!

This man has seen real witches!

Just as he might expect, "the Outsider" garners a look of bemusement from her. He drops the name into the story as though he has mentioned it before, or expects that she knows what or who it is. Katrina even opens her mouth to interrupt and ask if perhaps she has missed some important detail of the story -

But no, she wants to hear about witches. Maybe "the Outsider" is a word for someone who lives in the woods, since they devote their rituals to it. A hermit, maybe. Witches are more interesting than hermits.]

What more could they want?! They control the very trees!

[Let it never be said that she isn't a captive audience.]

[ That's a relief, at least, and it may show in a brief flickering of his expression, slightest relaxation of the stern lines of his face. The less she knows about the Outsider, the better chance Daud has of remaining unknown. And it almost feels like evading the god, being in a land where his name means nothing. (Never mind that the black-eyed bastard's undoubtedly watching Daud's every move, watching for a moment of failure or some other choice entertainment.)

He smirks just slightly at her exclamations, the way she's fallen into the story. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have an audience. That it's not such a wholly negative experience. ]

When has anyone ever had enough?

There was a family in the city. Well-off and well-known, given to philanthropy. The parents died, leaving the daughter their stores of wealth.

[ That was stretching the truth, to say the least. It'd been a lone woman, a governess who headed the city, and her death - her death at Daud's hands - left her daughter in charge, tasked with money and power alike. ]

The witches heard about this. Thought that they deserved the money more than any child. And they began to contrive plans, anything to get them close to the girl and the money.

Each witch had her talents, but none were so skilled as the coven's leader, a woman named Delilah.

[ It's been years since he's spoken that name, and he half-marvels at the feel of it, so familiar and still bringing a cold burn to his mouth. ]

She'd begun life as a maid, then turned painter by a stroke of luck. I've seen her work; it's... Hypnotic, almost. Unreal. Shimmers on the canvas.

[ He cocks his head in recollection, thinking back to the pieces he'd seen. Her self-portrait and the portrait of her once lover. A portrait of the late governess. The painting she'd created of Daud, eerily apt. A once he'd wanted to destroy it and known he wouldn't, couldn't touch it. ]

Delilah was different. Special. While most of the witches could to some extent control plants, Delilah's magic extended beyond vegetation. It was only Delilah who could possess the spirits of other humans.

["When has anyone ever had enough?" At that question, Katrina casts a glance about at the room, the company, her father off laughing jovially with the same friends she has known her whole life. Just now, she thinks maybe he's right: controlling tree roots wouldn't be enough to fill that sense of confinement, as though she'll burst from her own skin at any moment.

It's a flash of wildness, a flare that makes her want to run and scream, to jump on the back of a horse with a handsome boy and ride off, to see how far they can go before the foggy dream of her town falls away, before the world opens up -

She's only nineteen. In a few years, certainly she will settle into the determined, idyllic rhythms of Sleepy Hollow, that course that has been walked again and again by the people who came before, be a good wife and matriarch, take care of the geese and cook the food, but at nineteen, it occurs to her that maybe "more" would be something worth craving.

She solves her hunger with another swallow of her drink and returns her gaze to her companion.

How he talks about Delilah is different from the way he spoke of the other witches, she thinks, and she interrupts knowingly:]

Did you love her?

[It doesn't occur to her that one can respect another individual with fervor, but without lust or love. Though she believes herself very worldly, she really has no idea about the complexities of human emotion. Emotions are simple for her, because she experiences them strongly, giddily, like the first drink of wine - not understanding that there are than she can possibly imagine.]

[ The question earns her a quizzical look; he doesn't know where it's coming from, and it jars hard against the truth of the situation. Love Delilah? He'd hunted the woman. Been harassed by the woman. Thought to find some moment of peace by banishing the woman. It's true that when he first arrived in Dunwall, there had been witches who fawned over him; Delilah had never been among their number. Nor had Daud returned their interest. ]

No.

[ Though he stops short of saying it, his eyes - uncertain, put off - pose a query: 'What kind of question is that?'

Maybe it's that she's young, sheltered. Maybe it's that she lives by what stories she can glean. Or maybe it's a turn of mind particular to this girl. Daud watches for a moment more, takes a drink before continuing. ]

There were plenty who did. I'd say half the coven was enamored of her. Plenty of people on the outside, as well.

[ Including his long-time second-in-command. That one still burns to think about, the way Billie'd been drawn into Delilah's plans, the way she'd turned on him long before his day should have been through. He doesn't blame her; never had, even as he sent her into exile. But there's a sting to the memory. Almost an ache every time he realizes there's little chance of ever seeing her again. ]

I don't doubt she relished the attention. What she wanted was power; to take power, she needed money.

[ Needed to possess the young governess, but that's beyond the scope of this story. ]

I said Delilah could possess other humans. I can't say exactly how she did it, but it involved her paintings. She'd create a portrait of her target, enter the painting, and it'd be as good as stepping into their body. Their limbs, their voice, their lives were as good as her own. At first she could do it for only seconds at a time. Then minutes.

By the time the rich girl's parents died, Delilah had honed her technique. Must have worked out the flaws in her work, because she planned to possess the girl indefinitely.

[ His questioning look earns only the same in return; she isn't sure why it should surprise him that what she inferred was amorousness. Isn't that how all stories go, when there is a man who meets a woman? When the woman becomes the subject of his stories later? When he speaks of her talents with such...admiration?

That is a woman's place, isn't it? To be adored by a man?

But if that rings of untruth, what is a man's place in Daud's world? It seems nothing about him goes according to design. Here he is on a cold night, drawn by the lights of the farm like (Grendel to the hall) a moth to a flame. She is beginning to form a notion in her mind of what he might be: not a father, not a husband. Someone free.

But how lonely that must be!

She decides not to show that in her expression; lonely people don't, in her experience, care to be reminded of or pitied for their loneliness. But as he continues his tale, she is crafting one in her mind, considering the adventures and lost romances and wondrous sights he has experiences.

No, she has certainly never spoken to someone like Daud before.

When he reaches the part of his story about how Delilah possesses people, Katrina can barely stifle her gasp of horror. It was not so very long ago in a northern part of the colonies where people were hanged under the accusation of just such a horrid deed. ]

Oh, no, say no more!

[ She imagines losing her will to that of another, how her limbs might no longer respond to command, how someone might speak with her voice and say terrible things that sweet, coquettish Katrina Van Tassel would never dare say. Tonight, she'll sleep with a candle lit and her head buried far beneath the blankets.

...And yet, she has to hear the rest! She'll simply die if he stops there, with Delilah possessing an innocent orphaned girl.

She gestures emphatically for him to go on.]

No, continue.

[ For the first forty years of his life, he lived largely free, veering always away from positions and people who threatened to close him in, choosing the paths that would allow him to build a name for himself, to exist in ways others wouldn't or couldn't do. (This was how he had caught the Outsider's interest; this was why he'd decided to take the bastard's Mark.) This was how he'd come to build an empire of his own, a force of assassins who couldn't be halted. This was how he imposed his will on the growing city of Dunwall.

He wouldn't have called his place lonely in those days. Now? Now it's true that loneliness often creeps upon him, catching him at arbitrary moments and making the world seem impossibly, unconquerably cold. It's been that way ever since his exile at the hands of the girl's guardian. Ever since Daud - half-seeking an end - had lost their duel and somehow, somehow been afforded mercy.

Loneliness is simply a part of his life, now. A part of him. He doesn't tend to dwell on it.

He watches curiously as she first rejects the story, then demands it. Can't tell whether it's a work of theatrics on her part, or whether she's been beset by battling impulses. He decides it isn't every farmer - certainly not every father's daughter - who would hear this tale through its duration. Wonders vaguely over what this says about the girl. It's a thought to keep in mind for future referencing and revising, a piece of the puzzle this girl just might be. ]

A certain man caught wind of her plan. Knew what had to be done, only he didn't have the means to see it through. So the job was brought to me.

[ The job had been brought to Daud, true, but it was no mere man who pointed the way. It was the Outsider, dripping sarcasm after years of silence, who first gave Daud the name 'Delilah.' Left him to follow a cold trail, hinting that it'd be worth Daud's time, that it might even ease some of the damage Daud had so recently done. It'd taken months, but at last the trail had led him to the coven, exposing Delilah's plan and the destruction is was bound to cause. ]

I've never felt anything like that mansion. Even the grounds seemed to be alive, lying in wait for some misstep or a witch's command. Branches curled of their own accord, and ghost hounds roamed free. When provoked, the women were terrible, their faces turned to ash, their bodies shot through with vines.

[ Had other girls been present for the telling of this tale, Katrina might be grasping one of her friends by the arm, each of them in turn hiding their faces against the shoulder of the other and peeking out at him with nervous titters. They are not here now, however, having retreated to some other part of the house for parlor games or dancing or perhaps even to sit in quiet reprieve from the tiresome attentions of their beaus.

So Katrina is alone, and while some of her antics may be theatrical, she is finding that the story is quite thrillingly frightening. Her hands grasp the arm of her chair, her cup abandoned for now, her eyes wide. Ghost hounds?

She shivers, chilled by the thought. She imagines the baying of dogs at the hunt, and how terrible it would be to hear if there were no dogs alive to make the sound. What walking through the woods would be like, were women like those lying in wait. Oh, she would take on the horseman's fury over this new horror any day, were she forced to make such a choice! ]

Were you very afraid?

[ Her voice is small now, choked, betraying her youth for all that she put on such a display of cheerful unconcern until now. ]

[ It's easy to forget how young other people can be. Even when Daud was younger, he'd held a steady, collected view of the world. Knew how to blaze through mundane horizons but knew as well how to keep his feet on the ground. He didn't believe in stories until he saw their proof, didn't believe in rumors until the facts had come to light (though he knew and always has known how to listen to rumors, to extract useful information from them).

This one, though. She's inexperienced. Open to belief and perhaps gnawed at by imagination. He considers her question, running a gloved finger over his glass. ]

I’ve never been given to fear.

I was alert. Wary. They startled me more times than I care to admit.

[ The hounds were the worst, ghost forms growing from skulls nestled into the ground, yowling as soon as they took shape. He'd been caught off-guard by two of them, missed spotting their skulls before it was too late. One had gashed his arm, and their combined noise had called over a trio of witches. It was, to Daud's mind, the closest he'd come to being stopped. And what would have happen if he hadn't made it? If he hadn't sabotaged Delilah's plan and sent her to the Void?

Loath as he'd be to say it, he's glad the Outsider set him on Delilah's trail. Glad the bastard came to him those last few times, even if it was only to spit mockery and put him to use.

It's been a long time since that mission. A long time since the black-eyed bastard deigned to visit, at all. ]

But I made my way through their ranks. Passed their shrines, the body of a man they'd tortured and left to die. Half of their hallways were flooded; the entire place was in ruins.

[ Then again, what in Dunwall hadn't fallen to ruin? It was a variation on the usual theme, nothing more. ]

Delilah's painting stood at the center of the building. Not the portrait of the girl, but a much larger scene, empty air and rock formation, an endless expanse of space. A Void.

To reach Delilah, I had to enter that painting.

[ His story has found a way inside her, curling about her heart and quickening her pulse with its grip. True, she's inexperienced, but it's a peculiarity of the folk in Sleepy Hollow that they're given to flights of fancy, dreamy superstitions - and to believe almost all they're told.

When he claims to have entered her painting, however, it tests Katrina's credulity. She tilts her chin with a huff and sits back in her chair. The spell is broken, at least for the moment, as a knowing smile curves at the corners of her mouth, dimpling her cheeks. She looks as young as she is, trying so hard to seem wise. ]

You're making sport of me now.

[ Here, she would pointedly add his name as though punctuating her statement with it could somehow drive home how gullible she isn't, thank you very much. But did he tell her his name? She must have neglected to ask. Well, the accusation will have to stand on its own, then.

Jovially, she continues: ]

You didn't enter a painting.

I did.

[ He stares back at that smile, his expression unwavering, no sign of a jest in his eyes. It isn't often he agrees to share a story of himself - isn't often he speaks with anyone at any length - and he doesn't especially appreciate this disbelief. He isn't annoyed with her, precisely (somehow, it's difficult to be annoyed with the girl), but it might be clear he isn't pleased. ]

I don’t have any interest in fancy.

[ His tone, edged almost with a warning, suggests it’s a waste of his time to draw stories out of imagination. Suggests he’s never been a man to waste his time in that or any other way. ]

Believe or disbelieve as you choose; I know what I saw. What happened.

[ He could understand the incredulousness, if he thought about it. Is mostly surprised to find that this is the first time she’s objected. Ghost hounds and sentient vines had been accepted without a moment's doubt, yet this painting stops her short. Well. Everyone has limits to their belief. ]

And I won’t change the telling to accommodate your doubt.

[ Her expression freezes into one of shock, then regret when she realizes she has offended him. She can often get away with gently teasing others her own age, appealing to their need to be accepted and believed, or her father, who will respond with indulgent patience. It's not quite the same with this man, however; he doesn't like the implication that he's lying when he has tried to indulge her request for a story.

But if he is so sensitive to the accusation, does that mean his story is the truth? Was it possible that these things really happened to him? Katrina worries her lower lip for a moment, rubs one soft hand over the other until her fingers entwine. She feels a bit like a chastened child, and though she doesn't like it, he is her elder and she did start it by taunting him. ]

I didn't mean to cause offense. You must admit it sounds beyond the realm of any possibility - but if you say it's so, then I'll believe you.

[ She reaches out, not to touch him, but the arm of his chair, and smiles as winningly as she can. ]

Won't you forgive me? Please, Mein Heer, let's be friends again.

[ There's a stretch of silence as he measures her smile and her proximity, the sincerity of her response. He knows he'd been expecting too much, thinking she could hold belief in what he was telling. Knows the ways most stories exist in an unbound space of could-be, of probably-isn't; knows that half of what draws people to stories is that precarious uncertainty.

Which is part of the reason he keeps his stories to himself. Which is something he should have expected in speaking. And maybe it's for the best that she believes the words to be built of fiction; there are fewer questions to answer that way. There's a better chance of hiding what he is and what he's been.

All right. There's no reason to hold this against her. ]

...Daud.

[ He takes a drink, rubs at his cheek. It can't hurt to give his name; he'd left behind the reach of its significance long ago, and anyone who hasn't heard the name of the Outsider certainly hasn't heard his own. It still strikes him strange, sometimes, to find his name met with unknowing. True, it's what he'd wanted, but he's never quite gotten over the loss of recognition. ]

I didn't catch your name.

[ Satisfied, she withdraws. It isn't that she's consciously aware that her cajoling is a manipulation, but rather that this is how things have always worked: if she smiles and asks nicely, she usually gets what she wants. There are a few times when the answer is still 'no', and even those can be turned to her advantage with a pretty pout.

She doesn't mean any harm - she certainly isn't unkind, which might have made her insufferable. She's simply spoiled.]

Katrina Van Tassel.

[ With a gesture, Katrina motions to the room, indicating the entirety of the house. ]

My father is Baltus Van Tassel; this is our home.

[ Her voice is full of pride, both in her father and what her family has provided. This is an inherited estate, but one that is constantly worked: the fields are tended, the animals herded to and from the fields, the farm managed, and most of it by the Van Tassels themselves. American nobility she may be, but it's earned - there's that, at least. ]

I'm sure you met him when you arrived. He's quite the social butterfly.

[ Ah. That man. Daud glances around the room, nods. ]

He mentioned a daughter.

[ Mentioned a lot of things; that'd been the longest conversation Daud had sustained before meeting Katrina. Daud had spent most of the evening attempting to keep out of the way, excusing himself when introductions turned to conversations, giving no more information about himself than was needed. At the same time, he was careful enough to offer some scraps about himself, true and otherwise. Enough to ease some suspicions, enough to guarantee himself a place in this house's evening festivities.

The house itself is admittedly impressive. Remarkable for a place that's in just about the middle of nowhere, and would do a family credit even in the busiest town. He's broken into houses like this. Killed people in houses like this. (Years ago. That was years ago.) It all smells of wealth and success.

Small wonder that the girl is proud. Really, the wonder is that she's speaking with him. She must have better things to do. (The wonder, too, is that he hasn't attempted to extricate himself from her hold. That he doesn't entirely disdain this conversation, and has no wish for it to end.) ]

You're well-situated.

Well.

[ At that remark, Katrina lifts her eyes to the ceiling, studies the moulding while she contemplates how best to respond. God has been generous? Not particularly. There have been many trials here; Sleepy Hollow has its share of ghosts born, such as they were, from violent battles. The Van Tassel homestead has seen fields set afire, and more than a few soldiers occupy the land. What they have, they've fought for.

God has been average. But Baltus, she thinks - Baltus has striven to make a success of his farm. At that thought, her solemn pensiveness becomes another proud smile. ]

My father has worked very hard, that I should not have to do so.

[ That she should marry well, and bring to said marriage a fortune.

The smile fades, however, and she regards him archly now. ]

But you've distracted me! You didn't finish your tale, and I will simply die if I don't hear the ending!

[ He's heard that story before, men rising from the ranks to renown or riches. (Had lived a version of the tale himself, in ways.) Coastal towns were full of their sort. What Daud knows is that their hard work doesn't make them any less suspect or much less a bastard than the men born with wealth.

As far as the girl's father goes, Daud's made no judgment yet, but he's wary. Not that it matters much. Daud's likely to linger here above a day or two, meaning he won't be obliged to deal with Baltus Van Tassel, whatever breed of man he is. This is what the past fifteen years have largely been: passing from one town, one settlement to the next, lingering only long enough to regather supplies and allow himself a brief rest.

Well. It's the best that he can do.

At Katrina's insistence, he lifts an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. Thinks he could note that she's the one who'd distracted them, so vocal in her disbelief. But there's no use in arguing the point; he expects he'd end up with a headache. ]

You're prepared to believe me about the painting.

Start talking

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excuse me i love this

me too tbh me too eee

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