For a fraction of a second, their face split to allow a modicum of irritation to touch it. Daryn tempered the want to stomp their feet like a child, to spit and hiss and start throwing snow at Harvest’s face. React, damn you! the rising urge to whine aloud, stifled in infancy. They blinked placidly, ears held lazily akimbo. This diplomatic dance was all too familiar to them after spending so much time in Autumn, and even before then, they’d gotten their fair share of polite back and forth with-.

No offense taken. Honestly, Daryn had barely known their father. Sure, they knew him, but like with the rest of their family, he had mostly turned a blind eye to them. Perhaps a younger Daryn would be more inclined to rage against the topic, would be more inclined to grieve the man rather than his power. His reach could have given Daryn so much, then he had gotten himself murdered by some outsider he subjugated. Either way, the grief they held was not for him. For their mother, maybe. If they had to put it anywhere.

They put a pout on their face, aggressively sighing out a breath to the point it moved their entire body.

Oh, but what if I wanted to lay in the snow a bit longer? The act immediately shuffled off their shoulders, strike made.

It is the middle of the winter in this place. Those with more…delicate sensibilities would have run for the south. It was not, in fact, the middle of winter, but Daryn had a skewed outlook on seasons anyway. They cast their gaze sideways at their betrothed as they strolled by.

We would have the most luck looking for Summer and Spring in warm places, no? Not that they spent much time with any of them. Time was a delicate resource, one they’d never had enough of.