（ his gaze follows the sloppy bandaging, the way the kid rises smoothly, despite evidence of exhaustion and anger. at first it's just a basic assessment, and then his attention gets pinioned by the scars, faded and silvery, topographical in their prevalence. defensive wounds stuttered along the strong bones of the forearms. evidence of things that clearly bit in hard and were then either dodged or parried afterwards against the ribs. he was left-handed, cy realizes, charting the constellation. most people, when pressed, will strike with their dominant hand and guard with the other.
the main and likely newest injury — the arm itself — doesn't so much as make him blink — he's seen worse evidence on younger bodies of that inexorable, almighty beast in its ravages. war has always been an inescapable thing even before it made its home in him.
but ultimately — violence has a way of leaving its mark on people, and he can taste it in the air just looking at this kid — the press of a breath sifted through a bloody sieve, throat ratcheted briefly closed as with a sob. deep in its prison, kulo vayn draws a shuddering breath, its interest felt like the sting of an incision through an anaesthetic haze. cy, for his part, only smiles.
the cigarette is snuffed out between his fingers, and he flicks it at a garbage can.
misses. ）
It's a type of food, depending on your definition of 'edible'. Ground up cow entrails served with processed pseudo-plastic and a single wilted piece of lettuce.
（ it's said around a yawn, as he slouches against the door frame, arms folded. the kid's jumpy, so while his natural inclination is to push and encroach on his space and freak him out a little — he finds it in himself to be indifferent. not kind — kind would be leaving, or letting him leave. instead, he only halfly blocks the door and grins just a little like a cheshire cat. ）
Just because I am a man of low-hanging innuendo — does that mean you're calling yourself 'Facilities'?
（ his delivery is coy and playful, head canted to one side as he says it. watching, as much because he's curious about the reactions he'll see as the ones he won't. ）
no subject
the main and likely newest injury — the arm itself — doesn't so much as make him blink — he's seen worse evidence on younger bodies of that inexorable, almighty beast in its ravages. war has always been an inescapable thing even before it made its home in him.
but ultimately — violence has a way of leaving its mark on people, and he can taste it in the air just looking at this kid — the press of a breath sifted through a bloody sieve, throat ratcheted briefly closed as with a sob. deep in its prison, kulo vayn draws a shuddering breath, its interest felt like the sting of an incision through an anaesthetic haze. cy, for his part, only smiles.
the cigarette is snuffed out between his fingers, and he flicks it at a garbage can.
misses. ）
It's a type of food, depending on your definition of 'edible'. Ground up cow entrails served with processed pseudo-plastic and a single wilted piece of lettuce.
（ it's said around a yawn, as he slouches against the door frame, arms folded. the kid's jumpy, so while his natural inclination is to push and encroach on his space and freak him out a little — he finds it in himself to be indifferent. not kind — kind would be leaving, or letting him leave. instead, he only halfly blocks the door and grins just a little like a cheshire cat. ）
Just because I am a man of low-hanging innuendo — does that mean you're calling yourself 'Facilities'?
（ his delivery is coy and playful, head canted to one side as he says it. watching, as much because he's curious about the reactions he'll see as the ones he won't. ）