#wiiaca

For a good moment he just stared at her, visibly hit by the counterquestion he was absolutely not prepared for. Perhaps it was the alcohol in his own blood that was known to slow the thinking process as it was known to slow reaction. For whatever reason he could not find the right words, so all that Paukka did then was to cast his gaze upwards in turn, sitting there besides her, with his legs tucked up and his arms resting on his knees; bottle loosely held in his right hand.

His own fault, he guessed, heaving a heavy sigh and still feeling like the weight suddenly pressing down on his chest was not lifted an inch. Worse, it made his tongue feel like lead and it was nearly impossible to swallow, even though his throat felt so dry. Holding a bottle in hand, his gaze sank onto it as he lifted the darkened glass as though he could see anything within it. A swaying of the bottle told him how much liquid was left instead, which he deemed a pity. Still, the bottle was raised it to his lips and he swallowed it all down.

„No“, he answered with a voice that fought the burning sensation and with disdain at the realization that the contents of the bottle did nothing to help his sore-feeling throat. Trying to distract himself from the strange clarity which had pushed the fog of intoxication far into the back of his head.

✷ @wiiaca, sokanon spoke up.

every second i wait, every moment i take for myself, is another life lost.

Atlas hurries behind her, nearly trips down the rain-slick stairs from the saloon, his boots squelching in the mud as he stays hot on her heels, right up until he runs out of patience for dogging her and stops her short, taking her arm in hand in sharp reproach. "You're acting a damn fool, and I won't suffer fools, for fucksakes!" He hisses in warning, pulling her under the porch awning of a nearby building and out of the downpour, the whites of his eyes showing as he dares to get in her face.

"I know you fancy yourself a one-woman army and all, but I've already looked at this from every possible angle, sent scouts, been diggin' for blackmail on those people Cornwall hired! And I'm telling you, there ain't no way in hell we get our people out of their camp alive without backup, without a solid-as-stone plan bein' made first! I am not letting you get my men killed just because you think you're the only one who can fix this!"

She herald him toward hesitation. Whilst shimmering pools locked in jaded intensity abroad her course of action. As if all the life he mimicked, instantaneously fled from his demeanor over her dissent. Scrutinizing her sip from the bottle pensively. Giving glimpse of this discomfort within a crawl over reconsidering his approach. Subconsciously drawing him into biting the inside of his cheek. " Mmn.. " he exasperated along the tuft of exhaling that residing tension. Repressed into taking a gradual step back as he leaned onto it's rear retreat whilst rolling his shoulders in means to ease a taut stance, before hands tucked deeply into his trouser pockets if not out of an more anxious habit. She honestly think that would unnerve him ? Defiant as he was to keep this masquerade up. Trying to find those convenient reins of manipulation that it hadn't, he caved with a wary smile. " Ye don' needa' doll yerself up for me, honey. " Despite his element of faux confusion, with anxious tempo coiled around his vowels as they sporadically blurred the lines between his foreign dialect amid it's southern drawl. She certainly foiled his advances. " -- hap'n te enjoy an all natural a'proach. "

“ 𝐈’𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. ” ━━━ @wiiaca

"What the devil-?" A flash of silver. 

The woman glowers, the campfire lighting her aflame. A scar mars her face. She has sharp eyes—knife-like. Like a hunting coyote's—and the blade shines and glints, gleaming and shimmering. A bounty hunter.

Just moments ago, he'd begun preparing for bed. The door opened. Picture frames smacked the floor. A chair toppled over. Wide awake and shoes scuffling, Trelawny, utterly off-guard, found himself at the mercy of a stranger in the walls of his own caravan, hopelessly unarmed and hopelessly alone. Later, too much happened. Now he's here.

The sun has set and the wood in her campfire snaps. 

Trelawny lifts his chin, trying to lean away. 

"It would- seem we've gotten off on the wrong foot." He placates. The knife is too close; it could bite his throat. "I am an intellectual," he continues, throaty and winded from pain, "from the sunny side of Oregon. I was told there was an- opening at your university, and I've come to follow the pot of gold, as it were."

Maybe she won't believe him. He knows, likely, why she's here. How will this story end? Handed to the law? At the end of a noose? His hair's fallen over his forehead, messy and undone, and Trelawny plays the poor innocent man down on his luck well. He has to.

Soka to Wan: You just call Arthur a berry picker? @wiiaca​ / ft. @stagseen​

wiiaca asked : canon rewrite: where Sean is captured by Soka? 👀👀👀

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑮𝑬𝑫 𝑨𝑷𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑹𝑰𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑳𝒀. / @wiiaca​​​ -- accepting

      𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰-𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝. A gunshot or two, Dutch’s grand announcement, screams, and whimpers of terror; there’s red on his hands but there’s little difference between flushed skin from a tight grip or if it’s truly blood on his palms. The memories are in small fragments in his mind, unordered in their layout.

      When Sean comes to his senses before he opens his eyes, he feels a weight as heavy as a filled water bucket on the very top of his head and he doesn’t feel the familiar tickle of shoulder-length hair on his neck. His feet are too close together for comfort. As he finally opens his eyes, no matter the heaviness laid on his lids, he is blinded by the sun and meets an awfully bright side of a tan boulder. 

      Where was he?

      A crunching of a twig recentered his focus, and he practically twists his body and swings it towards the source. Then, he realizes he’s not alone as campfire smoke floods his nose and in his upside-down view of the world (which could symbolize something he doesn’t care for), he spots a figure in a large black hat by a small campfire. But this hat wearer wasn’t Arthur, not with their figure and size.

       ❝ What the fuck? ❞ he practically shouts, not helping his headache lessen by swinging more in his restraints. Wasn’t he just on the docks? Why was he hanging upside down in the middle of nowhere?

@wiiaca ||

The strike comes something of a shock to the Knight, though he absorbs it, dodging away, after decades upon decades spent fighting a war without end. His right hand reaches back as he feels the slip of something warm and sanguine over his mouth, leaving it without drawing his sleeve across, a glare at Sokanon.