Re: Log: Miles W + Damian W
The man knows that appearances can be deceptive, obscure the raw bloodbeat of a person. That this colossal estate is a hitch nearer to the expanse of a national park than a home, means little to his (flexible) conclusions of the one residing within. It is the velveteen knowledge that the man inside who (presumably) owns it, carefully arranges time to shepard wily strays in this lea, see to it that they’re offered somewhat decent homes, which buoys in his brainpan. Staked there curiously. He sees it as a channel in the heart, Miles owning for himself several the size of alien holes on the moon.
He’s emerged from the car that he hopes is all right to park near the giant sighing jaws of the door. He is a tall, comfort fiend, off duty from bumpy long nights rubbing elbows with the damned and the doomed and dead. Now feeling a little underdressed in his leonine smile, but easy and confident in his blood-blue bagged eyes and cedarwood. Approaching the lord of the manor and his spritely juggling act with a bevy of cats. There is a gasp that echoes everywhere, which only those wont to hearing ghosts could detect, because, “FUCK LOOK AT THE CATS! And oh… look at him… could just eat em UP.” is what Misty is chittering on about.
“Sir,” he says in dated salutation, but then Miles looks genuinely concerned, his carrier as promised gripped. He asks, “Won’t they be sad? Looks like they love you.”