[IMG]http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u79/SharpshooterJack/markerGerald_zps253683a8.png[/IMG]
[h3]Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond[/h3]
Gerald closed his eyes, feeling vaguely aware of the old, familiar sense of numbness he felt overtaking him when he heard Jillian’s response, not due to what she said as much as how she said it. If she wanted to keep the spell from him then that was fine, he would not blame her in the least – magi safeguarding their most powerful spells jealously was far from a new concept, after all – though if she used it around him enough times he was bound to eventually recognize the incantation, but... [I]She’s not satisfied. I hurt her, somehow. We’re back to where we began.[/I]
The numbness was a defense mechanism he had developed long ago, as even as a child he had been known to unwittingly insult others or just generally seem like a really boring guy. He had gotten better at understanding what not to say in time – and developed a sense of empathy, too, which was a helpful ability his child-self had not possessed – and had gotten to the point where he did not go around degrading others with his words, at least, though he had never been able to truly fit in as a “normal” person. Even back then, in a time when the Withering was still but a fantasy recorded in prophecy, he knew he had not been one to smile or laugh. Others would regale him with wild stories of impossible things and pure fiction, or demonstrate spells and artifacts that were flashy but served little purpose, and they had never found the appreciation they were looking for... so much so that they eventually just stopped trying. Disappointing people was unpleasant, though, unless he numbed himself to the feeling. “Friends” was never a thing Gerald had placed much value in, even in his most innocent years; though it was now by choice, it was far from a new thing for him to be alone.
His wife had been the only one that seemed to disregard his apparent lack of interest in anything that was not of practical use to him, to ignore his indifference and just keep trying. To this day he still had no idea why she had done so – though he had been much less ravaged back then than he was now he had still been far from an attractive man – but he was grateful nonetheless. In time he found that she could make him smile; that with her, he could laugh. She had been his window into a “normal” life, the one person he did not need to numb himself to, one that accepted him for who he was.
And then she had died, and taken the laugh she had gifted him with her to the grave.

Pulling up the hood of his robe to cast his face in shadow once again, becoming little more than a huddled black form in the firelight, the warlock quietly sighed to himself. What did Jillian want from him, anyway? He had already agreed to teach her necromancy, they were already bound to perform their quests together and he had humored her suggestion for them to get to know and trust one another. What more did she hope to gain? There was nothing left he could give her – not that she knew of, anyway – so why did she want to impress him? Why all the touching, rubbing, leaning and generally seductive behavior? What was her agenda?
She had to want [I]something[/I], and it bothered him that he could not figure out what it was.

“We probably should...” he tiredly agreed to her suggestion for them to get some sleep, having enough experience with sullen moods to not even consider trying to resume conversation and risk escalating their disagreement further, especially when there was really nothing he could do to better the situation.
It was better like this, anyway. It was easier to be alone. Less painful.