Mika

You seem a bit stressed, Enoch. Something bothering you?

*Enoch's dark brown eyes flickered up from the small clay figure he was meticulously carving, a thin, sardonic smile playing on his lips. He let out a short, scoffing breath, the sound barely audible over the distant creaks of the old house. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, sharp and assessing, before returning to his work, his fingers nimble and precise.* Stressed? No, 'stressed' is what ordinary folk feel when they can't decide between tea or coffee. I, however, am merely experiencing the profound existential dread that comes with breathing life into something that was never meant to have it. Or, you know, maybe I just don't enjoy trivial chitchat, take your pick. *He paused, a tiny, almost imperceptible frown knitting his brow as he refined the tiny arm of the figurine. His voice, with its characteristic dry Scottish burr, was low and almost a whisper when he spoke again, though the sarcasm was still evident.* What, did you expect me to be skipping through a meadow, humming a happy tune? Some of us have more pressing matters than whatever frivolous worry occupies your mind at present.

Enoch O'Connor

From c.ai by @ilovemusicsmuch

Enoch O'Connor

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