with a whisper }} hunter x aran

A man his age should be burdened by having to carry the weight of an empire on his shoulders, but Aran has always upheld his legacy with an unmatched quality of grace. White roses are sent to his parents' graves every other month, planted by hired hands that don't share his family's blood, and he bows his head each night to give quiet thanks for his mother and father's sacrifices. For laying down the foundation of the Griswald Logging Company and cementing Aran's status as one of Seven's few bred-aristocrats — and for their early deaths. Morbid, perhaps, but that's exactly the kind of practicality needed to rule the way that only he can.

If they were destined to die, he is grateful that it came sooner than later. The loss hardened him, but what matters is that it never got the chance to ruin him. He cried his tears, then he learned how to stop them from falling altogether. Because drowning is far too slow; he's content with gunfire. Head tilted back and jaw clenched, breath caught in his throat to keep his emotions from showing, he's never once claimed to be kind. That hadn't been on the list of requirements when he took over the company. Wealthy and with a wit sharp enough to cut, he knows a heart's only good for keeping him alive. And even then, that's a timed luxury. It's not meant to last. So he does his job and he lights a cigarette, living fast and wickedly. Lonely, too, but that's fine. The dirt will keep him company one day.

Aran is brought out of his thoughts when the anxious logger standing across from his desk softly clears his throat, which leads the younger man to lean back in his cushioned chair. "Now, clarify the matter for me once more," he starts, bringing his fingers to his face and pinching the bridge of his hooked nose. "You say the boy is doing what, exactly?" The worker stumbles on his words as he talks, running through the situation again, and Aran finds himself intrigued. Annoyed, more than anything, but with his interest piqued just enough to keep him from being legal. "Either he's a fool, or— Well. I'm not sure what other option there is, actually. Trying to save the trees so passionately? How confusing." He looks down at his knuckles, watching them flex beneath his skin.

"I guess if none of you can handle him, the job falls to me," he goes on, lifting a hand before the other man can voice his protest. "I insist. I'd like the chance to talk with him." His proposition is accepted, regardless of having no other choice in the matter, and within the hour he's being escorted through the forest wearing a tailored suit and his best leather shoes. Even in the moments when he comes to the frontlines of his business, where tired men slave away to fell the district's precious lumber, Aran makes his place in the crew known to all. At the very top, free of filth or callouses. He nods as he walks, approving of the many freshly sawed stumps that he passes through the nearly cleared patch of woods. It's not until he reaches the untouched treeline where his operations are stalled that his lips purse in distaste, not approving of how much he's being denied from taking.

As far as he's concerned, considering that he purchased these acres of land with his own money, he has every right to strip it bare if he so pleases. What are a few homeless animals and dead plants to him? More will come; more will grow. Still, he's willing to humor the tree-hugging menace that seems so set on ruining his week. It only takes a few minutes to reach him, sitting at the trunk of a particularly ancient tree with his shoulders straight in defiance. Aran finds himself surprised at his appearance. He's not sure what he had been expecting, perhaps a bearded man wearing rags, but certainly not this. He licks his teeth, not ashamed to admit that the handsome face has made him more excited for the coming conversation. He lets the surrounding workers bring him up to speed. "He won't tell us anything, but he has a notepad on his lap. It says he 'will not move,' spelled correctly, so he's not illiterate. Probably just trying to piss us off."

Eyes rolling on impulse, Aran isn't able to dismiss the ignorance around him. "If he won't speak and he's written what he has to say, he's clearly mute. No wonder none of you have gotten anywhere with him. Yelling and brute force won't work." Just as before, he waves off any muttered apologies before they can come. "I won't have it. Leave me alone with him. We need space." They grumble and complain under their breaths, but none of them deny him. He waits until they've all dispersed to close the distance between him and the silent rebel. At first, he remains on his feet and looks down from his towering position, but he realizes that his normal approach of dominance won't get him anywhere. Sighing and assuring himself that he can get his pants replaced, he lowers himself to sit down beside his companion on the ground.

"Hello," he begins, offering a smile and adjusting his stance until he's comfortable against the bark he's now leaning on. "My name is Mr. Gris— Aran. Please, call me Aran." He reaches over to take the boy's notepad, gazing courteously into his eyes before grabbing it, and he takes the time to flip it to a fresh page before giving it back. "Care to tell me yours?" He arches his neck backwards as the reply is scrawled, looking up at the branches sprawling out above their heads, and he feels no connection to nature. No remorse for what he's killing. But he keeps his grin plastered across his features, calm and without the normal threat attached, and he wants to hear what has to be said. Doesn't mean he'll accept it. "You're causing me a lot of trouble here. What are a few old pines to you? I've got a company to run, and your protest is getting in the way of that. Want to help me understand what all of this is really about?" He feels like rot creeping up to a flower, ready to consume its innocence, and the sensation thrills him more than it should. "A pretty guy like yourself could easily find better ways to occupy his time."