Ill-Made Martyr [Open]

Peter saw her face as he presented the blade, realized his mistake a breath too late. In a rush to correct he pulled his hand back, the dagger tucked into the back of his belt in a well practiced motion, his now empty hands held up so she could see there was no danger. His mouth moved more slowly than his hands, a bubble of half made sounds and stutters bubbling out from between his lips in his rush to explain. He stopped, closed his hands right, and tried to start over. ”I make things. Mostly, um... well I, I’m best at... at things like the knife, but I... it’ll usually disappear too, it didn’t, I don’t... I don’t know why. It’s bad, it’s very very bad to do, people don’t like it. Didn’t like it.” He rambled, unsure how to stop now that he had started. ”I’m not... I’m not bad, I don’t want... don’t want to be treated bad again.” Maea’s words had helped Peter relax and not worry, at least a bit, about how he would be treated and received, but now that he had started on the thought he seemed to spiral down with it. He shouldn’t have shown her, shouldn’t have said anything. This was how he got hurt, again and again. Peter The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.