No Poetry but the Stars

The stranger’s words, somehow, brought a small smile to his face. Asmul really enjoyed the company, much to his surprise. He’d come all the way out here to... be sad, he supposed. He’d come to sit here alone and wallow in his own self-pity, his memories of home. This woman was so bright, so cheerful even in the depths of the cold night. He listened to her speak— she spoke quite a bit, to Asmul’s amusement. She seemed to speak straight from her thoughts without a filter, which he liked, though the content of her words was mildly concerning. Lirim had held her captive?
”Freedom, eh? That’s... nice,” he responded, brow furrowed. He wasn’t usually bothered by the idea of captives— if it was the way of society, or a pack unit, he understood. Tradition was important to keeping order, after all. Something about taking an accidental trespasser, and one with nerve damage, at that, bothered him. But it seemed they’d freed the woman with no apparent harm, so he dispelled the thought after a brief pause with a warm smile. ”That’s great— I’m happy for you,” he murmured, eyes twinkling in the bright starlight. It was late, and his weariness softened his voice, his words, his posture a little. ”To be honest, I don’t much notice the changing of seasons up here. It’s basically cold year round, with heavier blizzards in winter— well, and some snowmelt in summer, depending on where you are. I used to live out there,” —He nodded out towards sea— “And let me tell you, there were two seasons: cold and blizzard.” He chuckled at his own joke, remembering the early days of home with fondness. It was indeed funny she’d found herself all the way up here, he thought. What an odd coincidence, that they should both be up here so late, on the edge of nowhere.