I have. There is much work to be done, always people needing help, and it gives me a privacy the city walls can not. A dragon can not be contained, I believe.
But... I wish for more. I do not think the tale of Daenerys Stormborn ends growing old on a farm.
That's not a bad trait. If you're difficult to please, you're always searching for more, beyond what most people find comfort in. You see something no one else does. That's how you can change things.
I found the only thing I'd make a difference in, even if it was in hell.
I wish not to change this world unless it is for the better. I am no farmer's wife nor skilled in the land. I do what I can, but there is little love in it. It has allotted me freedom, for that I am thankful... but...
How can you miss a home you have never once seen?
[ Figurative, literal – she doesn't dwell on it. ]
You make quite a difference here. I am glad for it.
[ probably for her, if she’s saying it— eren’s never really sought to make a difference knowingly seeking its recognition. he bases all his strengths on going home. it makes a difference for him. rather selfish, but . . .
if it could help some other people along the way, which he’s also done, than it was true. rather than answering her (unsure how to answer that, if it were a meaningful compliment— the dragon still had some unresolved feelings attached to that), he figures, instead, to knock on her cabin door. ]
[ When he arrives, she's taken time to be presentable. Gods, why would she even do so? The life she lives now was not petty politics or conquering lands – it was tending to it. Who cared if there was hay in her hair or dirt under her fingernails?
The knock was greeted with the presence of a woman collected, posed and guarded but Eren knew how to see through that. ]
I was beginning to wonder if something had happened. [ Honest, there's a bit of worry but she had no doubt for him. ] Come, rest yourself.
[ he says lightly as he holds his watch up before pocketing it back into his poncho. most of the lands just outside of aefenglom we’re still warm, so that had been a plus— even if the chilly winds from the wilde once and a while caught his spines by surprise. now when the door opens, he could feel his cheeks tighten as his lips don’t quite curve, but, they do something, in greeting and as he steps in with his full height and ducking so his horns don’t catch the door’s frame.
and, what he has in his bag: a rolled up scroll of leather-like fabric. ]
[ She takes the scroll, carefully running her fingers against it, if not for texture just for an idle movement of her clawed fingers. Carefully, to note. ]
You come bringing gifts and all I offer is company. What is it?
[ She isn't a modest woman, but she plays coy. Baiting. For the most part, it was just the echo of their words besides a few crackles of a nearby fire that almost always ran hot. ]
[ wanting to offer that to him was far better than any gift he could receive, though he'd never bring to light (with verbal context) that was lonelier a soul than he let on. by choice, perhaps, but only formed by the state of what his world forced onto him.
his own talons shift into his poncho's front pockets as he waits for her to unravel the whats-it, which would turn out to be colors. painted colors. an uncreative eye would only see a mess, but what eren gives her something abstract, odd— but a painting (not as professional, please, he's an amateur), made by his hands and her image. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ during that though— he walks. from now until dusk, he's sure to step foot on her grounds with a messy canvas, wrapped in leathers on his back. ]
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But... I wish for more. I do not think the tale of Daenerys Stormborn ends growing old on a farm.
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I can't see myself do that, either. I hated it, when I was younger. Worked the fields until I was old enough for the military to accept my enlistment.
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And did you find what you were looking for when you enlisted? Something the fields did not offer you?
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I found the only thing I'd make a difference in, even if it was in hell.
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How can you miss a home you have never once seen?
[ Figurative, literal – she doesn't dwell on it. ]
You make quite a difference here. I am glad for it.
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if it could help some other people along the way, which he’s also done, than it was true. rather than answering her (unsure how to answer that, if it were a meaningful compliment— the dragon still had some unresolved feelings attached to that), he figures, instead, to knock on her cabin door. ]
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The knock was greeted with the presence of a woman collected, posed and guarded but Eren knew how to see through that. ]
I was beginning to wonder if something had happened. [ Honest, there's a bit of worry but she had no doubt for him. ] Come, rest yourself.
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[ he says lightly as he holds his watch up before pocketing it back into his poncho. most of the lands just outside of aefenglom we’re still warm, so that had been a plus— even if the chilly winds from the wilde once and a while caught his spines by surprise. now when the door opens, he could feel his cheeks tighten as his lips don’t quite curve, but, they do something, in greeting and as he steps in with his full height and ducking so his horns don’t catch the door’s frame.
and, what he has in his bag: a rolled up scroll of leather-like fabric. ]
This is yours.
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You come bringing gifts and all I offer is company. What is it?
[ She isn't a modest woman, but she plays coy. Baiting. For the most part, it was just the echo of their words besides a few crackles of a nearby fire that almost always ran hot. ]
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[ wanting to offer that to him was far better than any gift he could receive, though he'd never bring to light (with verbal context) that was lonelier a soul than he let on. by choice, perhaps, but only formed by the state of what his world forced onto him.
his own talons shift into his poncho's front pockets as he waits for her to unravel the whats-it, which would turn out to be colors. painted colors. an uncreative eye would only see a mess, but what eren gives her something abstract, odd— but a painting (not as professional, please, he's an amateur), made by his hands and her image. ]