[ Eamonn's shortcomings as a man (as a witch, as a human being) are various and sundry, but of the lot, vanity is most certainly among his lesser crimes. As such, he takes Loren's comment in stride, little more than a quirk to his mouth and a tip of his head to one side. (He is old, he'll give her that, but his magic's always young. And, given present company, Eamonn supposes that's all that truly matters.)
He doesn't quite frown at the mention of Grace, but his demeanor shifts slightly, like he's considering a change in mood. Not quite defensive, but closer to prickly, his tongue making a quick circuit over his teeth behind his lips. Eamonn knows he can't blame Loren because, truth be told, she's right; and who is he to go against the status quo when it's done right by him already. Still—
Eamon glances over his shoulder at the door behind, eyes tracing over that dark smudge on the inside of the doorframe — a prayer writ small. ] Nah, [ he says, drawing out the word and then turning back to Loren to kiss her again. ] Gracie's a good girl. She'll last longer'n th'rest.
[ She loves me, but then again, they always do. That's how Eamonn first sinks in his claws, then chases it with spit and come — magic so old, it predates the written word. (Why should Grace be the exception?) ]
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He doesn't quite frown at the mention of Grace, but his demeanor shifts slightly, like he's considering a change in mood. Not quite defensive, but closer to prickly, his tongue making a quick circuit over his teeth behind his lips. Eamonn knows he can't blame Loren because, truth be told, she's right; and who is he to go against the status quo when it's done right by him already. Still—
Eamon glances over his shoulder at the door behind, eyes tracing over that dark smudge on the inside of the doorframe — a prayer writ small. ] Nah, [ he says, drawing out the word and then turning back to Loren to kiss her again. ] Gracie's a good girl. She'll last longer'n th'rest.
[ She loves me, but then again, they always do. That's how Eamonn first sinks in his claws, then chases it with spit and come — magic so old, it predates the written word. (Why should Grace be the exception?) ]