art by crypsis
As his companion’s back became further distanced and his ramblings quieted, Max tell into step with Sparrow. He was comfortable around her, as apparent in his loose-limbed walk, but even that did not change the sour expression on his face. He frowned at her question, looked at his feet, and was incredibly sorry he had not thought about the consequences of coming home bruised and bloodied (though he had no blood on him presently, of course).
He wanted to tell her he had been angry, and taken out his troubles on strangers. He wanted to boast about some border attack where he fought off five or six wolves, but the lie would not come. Instead he shrugged, jostling the crossbow so that it brushed against the tips of his arrows. “I’m fine,” he lied. His voice remained even and careful; controlled. “Just got into a scrap with a wolf. A big one. With a knife,” he added, hoping this might make the story sound more reasonable. “You should see him,” he added, and offered a crooked smirk. It fell short of his eyes, which were still hollow and sad.
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