somberly / somberly

‘ that could be why. ‘ comfort, or a vain attempt at finding it——in where they are, in their circumstances; in her, in himself. ( perhaps it is simply not there. ) he brings his knees close to his chest, arms crossed over his legs, head tucked between his elbows. ‘ i’ve yet to figure it out myself. and——you? why do you stay awake? ’

‘ ah——the creatures here. ’ he tilts his head, grip tight on his forearms to soothe the sting. ‘ they are unlike the ones——where i am from. softer. friendlier. less dangerous-looking. ’

a shift of his shoulders, to better accommodate her. he brings his hand to her forehead, brows furrowed, feeling for excessive warmth. ‘ do you feel unwell? would you like——blankets?  ’

you :) can :) put :) it :) that :) way :)

the voice does not come as a surprise, at least with what he showed, but it was a welcome one if it were so. he dares not to look up—the moon will scorn him, he thinks, for all that he hides in the light of day—keeping his eyes on the palms of dirty-hands. ‘ .......how do you think they can do it? sleeping———with all the noise from the trees and the wild game. ’

but he also attac

brows furrow as he balls his hands into fists ( brute’s eyes wide open / brute’s scream piercing his ears / brute it is no more ), knuckles turning bone white and the tips of his fingers going numb. ‘ your wounds,’ he mumbles. ‘ they may have not healed yet. ’ 

well the years start coming and they don’t come coming and they don’t come coming and they don’t come coming and they don’t come coming and they don’t come coming and they don’t come coming and they d

!!

!

‘ but should they rely on only one or the other—— ’ he pauses for a moment ( train of thought trails off: he looks to the sky for answers and gets nothing from it ) before he speaks again. ‘ ———does that make them better a fighter? ’

whomst'd've'ly'yaint'nt'ed'ies's'y'es

‘ professor, is it not unwise to——rely solely on one’s semblance or aura in a fight? then—ah—how come there are those who do? ’ // @afterflood look at this fuckin nerdlord

‘ no need to apologize, jaune, ’ he mumbles through grit teeth. cold wind ( almost-winter’s wind ) brushes past his shoulders, prickles the back of his neck, but he does not seem to mind. he grips on his blanket, frayed and coarse and worn at the seams. the weight of his fingertips indent where cotton stuffing should be. ' is there something——bothering you? ’

‘ there are——easier things to make with origami, i think. perhaps you should start with that? ’