Crow knows that Phyre intends to be firm, stern, and perhaps a little intimidating about his thaumaturgy βΈ» and he carries it beautifully, congratulations to him βΈ» but telling Crow if you are wise you will not attempt to learn a little like telling a child not to eat a whole plate full of cookies.
Still, he's wise enough not to push right now. Whatever magic is in Phyre's bloodline, it's obviously kept an incredibly strict secret. Forbidden knowledge: how enticing.
Phyre then proceeds to warn him off flirting, too, and Crow scoffs.
"First you tell me I'm not allowed to know about your school of study, and now I'm being told I shouldn't flirt with you." Crow puts a hand to his chest, dramatic. "Are you intending to rob me of every avenue of fun?"
Oh, but Phyre is dangerous. Crow can practically smell it. It's in those dark red eyes, in the severe lines of his cheekbones, in the aura of mystery that clings to him like smoke. Crow has met plenty a man that wanted to be seen as dangerous, and they're all the same: puffed up and hollow, full of angry bluster and empty arrogance. Phyre, on the other hand, is all lazy amusement, a lion laying in the sun and idly lifting a lip to show off a sharp fang. There's a rumor that the man has some kind of blood disease βΈ» not something that sickens and weakens a man, but something other, something that makes him strange and mad.
The buildings on the streets are getting narrower and more crowded now that they're closer to the palace, the sound of music carrying on the wind from bars and taverns further up the road.
"Aren't locked doors far more interesting than ones held wide open and easy?" Crow laughs. "You're a metaphorical barred door with layers of chains and boards holding it shut; it only makes one determined that there must be a great treasure inside."
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Still, he's wise enough not to push right now. Whatever magic is in Phyre's bloodline, it's obviously kept an incredibly strict secret. Forbidden knowledge: how enticing.
Phyre then proceeds to warn him off flirting, too, and Crow scoffs.
"First you tell me I'm not allowed to know about your school of study, and now I'm being told I shouldn't flirt with you." Crow puts a hand to his chest, dramatic. "Are you intending to rob me of every avenue of fun?"
Oh, but Phyre is dangerous. Crow can practically smell it. It's in those dark red eyes, in the severe lines of his cheekbones, in the aura of mystery that clings to him like smoke. Crow has met plenty a man that wanted to be seen as dangerous, and they're all the same: puffed up and hollow, full of angry bluster and empty arrogance. Phyre, on the other hand, is all lazy amusement, a lion laying in the sun and idly lifting a lip to show off a sharp fang. There's a rumor that the man has some kind of blood disease βΈ» not something that sickens and weakens a man, but something other, something that makes him strange and mad.
The buildings on the streets are getting narrower and more crowded now that they're closer to the palace, the sound of music carrying on the wind from bars and taverns further up the road.
"Aren't locked doors far more interesting than ones held wide open and easy?" Crow laughs. "You're a metaphorical barred door with layers of chains and boards holding it shut; it only makes one determined that there must be a great treasure inside."