All Drystan wanted was a moment to himself, just to think. There were times when he felt as though he was drowning, suffocating, in his life—he had to get out, had to move. Suddenly being the only adult male in a house of three borderline hysteric witches (one of whom was his pregnant wife), with five children running around…
Of course he'd had to get out. Even just for a moment or two. Drystan had been to their flat that morning, checking to make sure everything had been in order, then to the little café around the corner for a cup of tea… to stare out the window and perhaps lose himself for a moment or two in people-watching.
Carrying his cup carefully, he was weaving through the tables to get to his favorite corner spot, when suddenly—
The voice of Chester Scabior cut through his sea of harrowing calm, ripping away that thin veneer which all but kept him from destroying everything in his sight. There was the tinkling of broken china as his cup and saucer slipped from his grasp. Drystan turned around slowly, tense.
"You—son of a bitch," he breathed, staring daggers at the smirking man. "You would dare even speak to me—about my sister?" The words were slow and knifelike. "What are you doing here, Chester?"
The name rolled off like a foul curse
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