Re: The Lake; Briar and Newt
Newt wasn't squeamish about much. He crawled around in the dirt and let animals with tentacles kiss him in greeting. He just wasn't very good at people. Nor was he exceedingly well-versed in manners as they pertained ...to people. He was English, as evidenced by the number of times he could fit the word 'sorry' into a conversation. But, Newt Penhaligon just didn't feel comfortable around people. And the woman—Briar McKenna—was indeed, a people. A different species, yes, as the centaurs, merpeople, and so on, but a person, a people. Her hand was out and, with quite an obvious amount of discomfort, Newt took it in his own. His skin was clammy, but warm, and the contact, brief as it was, was more implied than actual.
He was smiling, his gaze having sunk, like buried gold and lost treasure, down, but—that was put out right quick when the woman tensed. He knew he had misstepped, though he didn't yet know where. She went steel, taut, and straight. It wasn't precisely anger he read on her, but outrage. Offense. Newt watched the embers of her cigarette die under the heel of her boot. He glanced up from his hunch-shouldered posture to meet Briar's eye. However, perhaps notably, he didn't step back. "I'm sorry, I think I've given you the wrong idea." His flighty smile came with another nod of his head in deference. He was only too aware of the clench of fists. "It's what I do. You asked about my curiosity. I've no intention of doing anything to you." He was earnest, and he hoped it might calm her.