[ He'd be loathe to admit it out loud, but -- it does feel nice, those gentle pats at his ear, especially when he feels small fingertips brushing closer to the base. His eyes shutter close with his next slow exhale, and he only makes a low, indistinct noise in approval in response what to Timmy says. Content enough to let the moment play out. Until, of course, the sudden rustle of dry tree roots, accompanied by those fingers slipping away from his ears, has him sitting forward with a jolt. ]
-- hey!
[ But even that rushed interjection of his is too late. In the blink of an eye, that younger version of Amos is gone, leaving behind only a tangle of dead roots.
His thoughts immediately go back to that dryad, first. Seeking some sort of scapegoat he could blame for this. But -- no. This feels different. It's probably something to do with the Blight, isn't it. Maybe in conjunction with its infection of the Great Tree? But in either case ... Timmy was here. And now he's gone.
Gen ends up waiting in that alley for a while before emerging, mostly to give Amos some time to himself. After all, he feels that gut-wrenching chill of grief all too clearly, as muffled as it is by those too-many layers of nothing. And while it's in part just him abiding by that unspoken code that all men share -- because surely no man wants to be seen feeling something as unsightly as grief, and it's only right for him to turn a blind eye to that weakness -- it's also in part so he can breathe a quiet sigh of relief to himself.
See? He'd always known it, but it's always good to be proven right once more. Beneath all of that damage, some part of Amos is still normal, at least in part. He's just ... fucked up. That's all.
When Gen does finally emerge from the cluster of trees to approach the bench, his donned his usual surly expression once more, hands tucked in pockets and shoulders squared. He says nothing as he takes a seat on that bench next to the toolbox, and he stares off to the side for a moment before shooting Amos a cautious sideways glance. Gauging how well he's faring after ... all that. Despite how hard he tries to maintain a stony demeanor, their Aspect-borne connection means gentle waves of concern lap at the very edges of Amos' thoughts, as well. ]
no subject
-- hey!
[ But even that rushed interjection of his is too late. In the blink of an eye, that younger version of Amos is gone, leaving behind only a tangle of dead roots.
His thoughts immediately go back to that dryad, first. Seeking some sort of scapegoat he could blame for this. But -- no. This feels different. It's probably something to do with the Blight, isn't it. Maybe in conjunction with its infection of the Great Tree? But in either case ... Timmy was here. And now he's gone.
Gen ends up waiting in that alley for a while before emerging, mostly to give Amos some time to himself. After all, he feels that gut-wrenching chill of grief all too clearly, as muffled as it is by those too-many layers of nothing. And while it's in part just him abiding by that unspoken code that all men share -- because surely no man wants to be seen feeling something as unsightly as grief, and it's only right for him to turn a blind eye to that weakness -- it's also in part so he can breathe a quiet sigh of relief to himself.
See? He'd always known it, but it's always good to be proven right once more. Beneath all of that damage, some part of Amos is still normal, at least in part. He's just ... fucked up. That's all.
When Gen does finally emerge from the cluster of trees to approach the bench, his donned his usual surly expression once more, hands tucked in pockets and shoulders squared. He says nothing as he takes a seat on that bench next to the toolbox, and he stares off to the side for a moment before shooting Amos a cautious sideways glance. Gauging how well he's faring after ... all that. Despite how hard he tries to maintain a stony demeanor, their Aspect-borne connection means gentle waves of concern lap at the very edges of Amos' thoughts, as well. ]