↳three word starters.||Accepting - @fangiit

While staying  in the rig while Furiosa & the wives greetedThe Vuvalini  left him a bit out of the loop, watching the imperator closely let him know that things had NOT gone as expected. Having chosen to finally speak to her once she was alone, Max had made his way over to her, & reached out, though paused just as his hand hovered over her shoulder at her demand, bringing his hand quickly back as if burned.  

 Staying quiet, he shifted his weight & simply moved to settle once more at the others side, his hand pressing against his braced knee briefly as he did. Keeping his gaze trained outwards he squinted off into the dark expanse of the wastes before turning his attention back to the woman beside him.

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        THE DEVIL OF THE SANDS--

    This was what they called him, though few had actually gazed upon his form. Whispers told of something tall and skeletal ( cold and STEEL ), with the strength of ten humans. Some said he had been human himself once, others swore he was part BEAST, but most of them agreed on one detail: he was nothing but a LEGEND.

        His legend, however, was not entirely FALSE.

    That devil who lived in their nightmares-- the GHOST who haunted their minds-- was real. His captors at the Bulletfarm called him Grievous ( a name which carried an eternity of suffering ), but he was far older than their turmoil.

        O, a relic of times lost to the WASTES.

    After escaping said Bulletfarm, Grievous had taken refuge within the confines of a rocky cave ( accompanied by a few admirers ). Now, he was perched upon the rugged surface of that very cave-- those vicious eyes were busy SURVEYING the surrounding dunes.

        “Dust clouds.”

    Grievous turned to one of his own and pointed towards the HORIZON. 

He’s quick to wrap a callused  hand around the bend of Furiosa’s elbow once she pulls herself up, allowing himself to be used as a temporary crutch.  For a moment Max stayed silent, his eyes trailing over her form to scout out  any other injuries sans for the nasty cut on her shoulder. 

At her words, He gave a half amused snort, reaching out to brush his thumb lightly under the laceration on her shoulder, smearing blood & grime in its wake. It’s nothing too bad (or so he thinks) & he glances upwards, turning his head towards the sun.