@Lemons
It's not as though the pseudo-condominium wasn't well designed, after all, the subtle grading of nature into furniture was rather pleasing to the eye, but the small quarters, the lack of any separate rooms... and speaking of separate rooms, Alason had to wonder: "Do you not have a bathr-," ah, a silly question. A solid pat confirmed that the moss which constituted the bed was at least on par with his own mattress, if not better, but Alason's critical eye turned to wonderment upon seeing a rather out of place sword hanging on the wall. Foregoing tact, he ran his hand along the blade, feeling, hearing, tasting the metal with the tips of his middle and forefinger, a pattern of seemingly infinitely complex flora running beneath his hand. Drawing it back down, he rather cautiously examined a permanent living fixation to the guard - a red blossom - from which trailed a web of thorns. Curious.
Alason was whipped back into the present by Anwen asking him something, though he did not quite catch what. He pieced it together, however, when she extended a handful of fresh raspberries. She placed them on a table to his left, and he was about to reach out and grab some when he noticed the spiraling form of a sleeping squirrel. The internal debate as to whether or not to still reach for the fruit was quickly ended by harrowing thoughts of rabies and needing to explain to his mother how he had followed a stranger to her treehouse in the woods and was bitten by her pet squirrel when he accepted her magical fruit. Perhaps I'd best not, he resolved, and placed his hand back at his side.
"Forgive me if I'm insulting you, I'd just rather not-" Alason stopped, his mouth open perhaps two centimeters, as he realized that he was about to apologize for a social faux pas to a woman who had just, somehow without him even noticing, stripped down to the layer most minimally permitted to not be a crime. "Never mind."
When Anwen asked him what his house was like, Alason wasn't quite sure how to answer. Rather, that is to say that he knew what his home was like, obviously, but why was she asking? It isn't as though he lives in some stone fortress surrounded by gargoyles and ravens as he walked about the corridors, filled with erect assemblages of dark, knightly armor, wearing mystical robes and chanting necromantic incantations. However, with a quick perusal of her face, Alason realized something quite pitiful: that's exactly what she was imagining.
"I-," Alason contemplated lying, just for the sake of a story a touch more fun than the insufferably grey reality of his life, "I just live in one of the apartments. Second floor, room 208. That's about all there is to it." Despite his best efforts, Alason couldn't help but let a hint of blush bleed from his cheeks.
It's not as though the pseudo-condominium wasn't well designed, after all, the subtle grading of nature into furniture was rather pleasing to the eye, but the small quarters, the lack of any separate rooms... and speaking of separate rooms, Alason had to wonder: "Do you not have a bathr-," ah, a silly question. A solid pat confirmed that the moss which constituted the bed was at least on par with his own mattress, if not better, but Alason's critical eye turned to wonderment upon seeing a rather out of place sword hanging on the wall. Foregoing tact, he ran his hand along the blade, feeling, hearing, tasting the metal with the tips of his middle and forefinger, a pattern of seemingly infinitely complex flora running beneath his hand. Drawing it back down, he rather cautiously examined a permanent living fixation to the guard - a red blossom - from which trailed a web of thorns. Curious.
Alason was whipped back into the present by Anwen asking him something, though he did not quite catch what. He pieced it together, however, when she extended a handful of fresh raspberries. She placed them on a table to his left, and he was about to reach out and grab some when he noticed the spiraling form of a sleeping squirrel. The internal debate as to whether or not to still reach for the fruit was quickly ended by harrowing thoughts of rabies and needing to explain to his mother how he had followed a stranger to her treehouse in the woods and was bitten by her pet squirrel when he accepted her magical fruit. Perhaps I'd best not, he resolved, and placed his hand back at his side.
"Forgive me if I'm insulting you, I'd just rather not-" Alason stopped, his mouth open perhaps two centimeters, as he realized that he was about to apologize for a social faux pas to a woman who had just, somehow without him even noticing, stripped down to the layer most minimally permitted to not be a crime. "Never mind."
When Anwen asked him what his house was like, Alason wasn't quite sure how to answer. Rather, that is to say that he knew what his home was like, obviously, but why was she asking? It isn't as though he lives in some stone fortress surrounded by gargoyles and ravens as he walked about the corridors, filled with erect assemblages of dark, knightly armor, wearing mystical robes and chanting necromantic incantations. However, with a quick perusal of her face, Alason realized something quite pitiful: that's exactly what she was imagining.
"I-," Alason contemplated lying, just for the sake of a story a touch more fun than the insufferably grey reality of his life, "I just live in one of the apartments. Second floor, room 208. That's about all there is to it." Despite his best efforts, Alason couldn't help but let a hint of blush bleed from his cheeks.