[Everything is shit. A sentiment that Prior Walter could buy up and print on greetings cards to pass out rather than saying hello.

He's found himself by a small stretch of water, maybe man-made or perhaps a convenient crater to host a natural puddle. The water is clear blue and reflects the treeline on the opposite bank, and it feels the faintest fraction like home in a way that hurts and soothes all at once. He'll come back in summer, at the point in the afternoon when the light overlays everything in gold. It would be nice to see it, then.

Now his attention's easily dragged upward, leveled on Dorian's profile with a detached, assessing gaze. This is in how he greets people, now, with an analysis of what they've been through.

There's no shame in not having visited, the Sanctuary or the House. Prior's been keeping his own vigil but even he needs to get away from it sometimes, when guilt and fear start to curdle together in the pit of his stomach. The whole city's a fancy parlour dance of bruised people sidestepping each other, why would Dorian be different.

So Prior sighs, and his lips curve without really finding the shape of a smile.]

It's all trees for me, from now on. A little rough around the edges but real saps further in.

[He turns back to the water.]

I've never had the vaguest problem with assholes. It's the indifferent I can't stand.