05-13-2020, 03:41 PM
“Låter som du skit i det blå skåpet*,” he said, half laughing bitterly to himself. It all sounded so mundane; the sort of life Sören had no desire for, filled with petty misunderstandings and betrayals. He tipped his fresh glass in another toast, perhaps only to himself this time, and drank to that. Self-served trouble was certainly a sentiment he could empathise with tonight.
“There are no dreary tales,” he said then to the stranger, “only dreary tellers. What else is a man but the story he spins for himself? And it’s a poor man who does not spin himself at the centre.” He smirked. His voice held something of the storyteller’s own cadence to it, a man used to weaving lies -- and that was true enough.
“Which of the tawdry three is your malady tonight? Or perhaps you are in the mood of indulgence, and choose to give each its own respect. You sound a dangerous man to do favours for.”
[[*sounds like you shit in the blue locker, an idiom that essentially suggests he thinks Dorian sounds like he got himself in trouble]]
“There are no dreary tales,” he said then to the stranger, “only dreary tellers. What else is a man but the story he spins for himself? And it’s a poor man who does not spin himself at the centre.” He smirked. His voice held something of the storyteller’s own cadence to it, a man used to weaving lies -- and that was true enough.
“Which of the tawdry three is your malady tonight? Or perhaps you are in the mood of indulgence, and choose to give each its own respect. You sound a dangerous man to do favours for.”
[[*sounds like you shit in the blue locker, an idiom that essentially suggests he thinks Dorian sounds like he got himself in trouble]]
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)