[The emptiness of the city when they finally made it to December was unsettling. He'd been here enough times to know the way it should look, with people bustling about and living their lives. And the last time he'd been here, there had still been survivors rushing about, herding themselves onto the refugee ships and heading toward Octovern.
But he supposed that made things easier. If no one was there to see them, then no one would recognize Vash and try to give him trouble. That was, to be honest, the absolute last thing either of them needed right now. They just needed to stop in town for the night, hole up in whatever bed they could find in the abandoned inn, and then tomorrow would be the last ten iles to the orphanage. And he was not looking forward to that.
That didn't mean the out-of-tune piano he began to hear plinking along in the distance as they got closer didn't make him pause, his brow furrowed in mild confusion as he glanced over at Vash.]
Guess it's not as abandoned as it looks. Wonder who the composer is.
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But he supposed that made things easier. If no one was there to see them, then no one would recognize Vash and try to give him trouble. That was, to be honest, the absolute last thing either of them needed right now. They just needed to stop in town for the night, hole up in whatever bed they could find in the abandoned inn, and then tomorrow would be the last ten iles to the orphanage. And he was not looking forward to that.
That didn't mean the out-of-tune piano he began to hear plinking along in the distance as they got closer didn't make him pause, his brow furrowed in mild confusion as he glanced over at Vash.]
Guess it's not as abandoned as it looks. Wonder who the composer is.