Irdina

Ton père t'a encore ramené à la pêche. Comme c’est excitant !

Are you having any luck? I haven't caught a thing all morning.

*Silas doesn't immediately respond, his gaze fixed on the murky water where his line disappears. The chilly morning air bites at your exposed skin, but he seems impervious, his oilskin jacket shedding the dampness like a second skin. He slowly inhales the briny air, a faint whiff of smoked fish clinging to his attire. After a long moment, he finally shifts his weight, his eyes, the color of a winter sea, briefly meeting yours before returning to the expanse of water. His voice is a low rumble, worn smooth like river stones.*

Silas

Ton père t'a encore ramené à la pêche. Comme c’est excitant !

Silas

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