Dietre Henrich Abendroth (sonataind) wrote in repose, @ 2017-10-10 19:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cris martin, dietre abendroth |
Who: Dietre Abendroth and Cris Martin.
What: D shops for Nilus.
Where: Sonrisa.
When: Midmorning.
Warnings/Rating: Low.
The constant gnaw of anxiety in his gut had grown exponentially since the party at the mansion. Aside from the fact he had been subjected to strange, reality twisting magic the evening had been rather uneventful, yet it had triggered a downward spiral of sorts. Maybe it was not the party, maybe it was seeing an angel in the flesh that had derailed him and sent him careening into this maddening state of confusion and despair. There was no knowing for certain. Yet, Dietre chose to consider discovering John’s true identity a good thing. It felt better to blame the party for how he felt and behaved afterward. And then he could also blame Damian. Damian. Just thinking of the man brought a faint scowl to Dietre’s face. He would not blame Liam. Though his unanswered request to talk was always there in the back of his mind. Why hadn’t Liam responded? Was he alright? Or did he just stop caring? It killed him not to know. But he wasn’t supposed to think about these things today. Or, at least, not right then. He had turned his thoughts towards doing something good, something nice. Angel or not, John had been kind to him, and kindness ought to be rewarded somehow. Dietre had no experience in giving gifts, but an art supplies store seemed like the right place to start. He had no idea why the owner went out of his way to check up on him, but he thought it was very nice, and he was desperate for any scrap of friendliness thrown his way. No one had implied that he could be fired from the carnival, but Dietre couldn’t shake the paranoia that his job was in danger. His visit to Sonrisa also served as a scouting trip for future employment, just in case. He entered the shop, a tall figure swathed in dark clothes, a thick black turtleneck sweater and slim fitted dress pants accentuating his height. He did not approach the counter right away, but wandered slowly by the displays of brightly colored paint tubes and sheaves of watercolor paper, pretending he belonged there and knew what everything was for. He stole furtive glances at the person manning the register, too uncertain to ask if they were someone he had spoken to online. It was strange to know someone, yet not know someone at the same time. Dietre did a lot of looking, but no touching as he slowly made his way to the counter. He could not avoid it forever. His expression was cool and distant, save for his eyes, which always had a touch of something haunted about them. “...I think I may need a bit of help,” he said at last. “I’m looking for a gift.” He spoke with reluctance, his voice low and almost smoky, though he was not a smoker. |