Watching the other for few more seconds, Pyke’s eyes examined his whole figure, locking for a while on the other side which seemed to hold it’s grip on a weapon. Squinting he took his time to think about from where possibly the stranger, as well as his crew could come from. But there was not much time for that.
Lowering the lamp a bit, not to blind the other too much with it’s light he pulled out one of his hands to grab the other’s one, with a quick and sudden move getting him to stand up, still on his own feet. He didn’t care much about being gentle, neither did he care about the fact that it could even hurt him. His touch itself wasn’t the best thing either. Cold, just like ice.
『❝ You got pretty lucky ‘ere. Few more hours and you’d be dead. Let’s get ya’ somewhere safe before nasty Bilgies make it ‘ere. ❞』
Pyke stated, with his voice in a hushed tone, as if he was aware of others trying to sneak up to those areas. Surely accidents like this one did bring a lot of unwanted people around. Not really waiting for the answer from the other, but making sure that he was rather comfortable with standing, and walking, the Ripper walked away from the shore with the stranger, careful as to not make him collapse. He knew perfectly that the person he was now rescuing could be a potential criminalist or every other sort of thing similar to it…But he felt like this one particular male was far from it. Or maybe he was wrong?
Far enough from the starting point, he put the survivor on the sand, this part at least wasn’t wet and as cold as the one right near the water. He himself sat down in front of the other, with the lamp placed next to him. Eyes once again squinting at the male. Curiously.
『❝ Now. What’s your name? ❞』
The sensations were all muted to him, all he could feel was the freezing grip of the sea and its biting breeze. Despite this, the stranger's touch sent a chill down his spine - his being recoiling at the sensation. A warning then, this man was more than meets the eye.
He went up on his feet with a sway, dragging himself through the sand as his limbs slowly responded, fatigued from the struggle that came with nearly drowning. Adrian managed to slide the small blade back into the sheath along his belt, hiding those old cursed runes and their seeping lore. Silent as the dead, Adrian walked along with this supposed good samaritan. He idly wondered what made this one different from the 'nasty Bilgies.'
The wet sand stuck to his clothes and he attempted to brush himself off before he placed on dry sand unexpectedly, his nose crinkling with irritation, but his exhausted body welcomed the relaxation. He watched quietly as the other man took a seat across from him, both of them inspecting each other. At the question, he immediately patted his pockets, mainly out of reflex, but paused as he pulled out a journal. It was soaked, its pages smeared with a mixture of ink and charcoal, and Adrian flipped through them as if in disbelief.
Of all the things to lose...
He huffed, looking over lost drawings of Draven, a certain bothersome General, the forest, his horse, and his travels. Most importantly, his notes. He set the leather bound journal on his knee, rubbing at his face with a wet glove.
Finally, he looked at the stranger and made a gesture towards his throat, then shook his head, hoping to convey what he was thinking. He stared expectantly, wondering if the odd man got the message. Again, he repeated, mouthing quickly 'can't speak.'
annaxmalina
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