Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear, are you Jack?
The stranger that approaches him doesn't look familiar, but that's not exactly anything new. Most of the people here are unfamiliar, even the ones from Thorne. You could say he doesn't really... get out much, and that would probably be an understatement. It leaves him narrowing his eyes at the guy, trapped for a moment considering whether or not he wants to lie. He's never been very good at lying, though, so he figures maybe the smarter choice is to just play it nice and cool and vague.
"Who wants to yes?"
Damn it.
He'd meant to say who wants to know, but apparently he isn't riding at the top of his A-Game.
There's a girl looking for you, and the absolutely irrational stutter-stop of his heartbeat for a second is something he will never, ever acknowledge. There is no logical reason why the first thought that popped into his head was Her, but she's not here. They describe the girl, and he goes wandering through the pit to find her.
The good news: he does find her. The bad news?
"Oh, shit! Hang on. I'm coming."
He doesn't have a knife, or a sword, or a dagger, or a weed whacker, or any other particularly useful thing here. He can't conjure his box cutter, though he's tried. He can't really conjure much of anything on command except, ever so unhelpfully, a solo cup filled with an unusually strong variant of Jerry's already stronk af creation of Five and a Half Lokos. He has, in his mind, dubbed this one an ominous Nine Lokos — the point is.
The point is, this version is very, very flammable.
"Cover your face!"
He's snatched somebody's flickering torch from their hands, and he's going to do the first stupid thing that comes to mind.
He's spewing highly flammable liquid out of his mouth through the flames, to make a poor man's fire-breathing flamethrower. He's torching this motherfucker.
trapped;
The stranger that approaches him doesn't look familiar, but that's not exactly anything new. Most of the people here are unfamiliar, even the ones from Thorne. You could say he doesn't really... get out much, and that would probably be an understatement. It leaves him narrowing his eyes at the guy, trapped for a moment considering whether or not he wants to lie. He's never been very good at lying, though, so he figures maybe the smarter choice is to just play it nice and cool and vague.
"Who wants to yes?"
Damn it.
He'd meant to say who wants to know, but apparently he isn't riding at the top of his A-Game.
There's a girl looking for you, and the absolutely irrational stutter-stop of his heartbeat for a second is something he will never, ever acknowledge. There is no logical reason why the first thought that popped into his head was Her, but she's not here. They describe the girl, and he goes wandering through the pit to find her.
The good news: he does find her.
The bad news?
"Oh, shit! Hang on. I'm coming."
He doesn't have a knife, or a sword, or a dagger, or a weed whacker, or any other particularly useful thing here. He can't conjure his box cutter, though he's tried. He can't really conjure much of anything on command except, ever so unhelpfully, a solo cup filled with an unusually strong variant of Jerry's already stronk af creation of Five and a Half Lokos. He has, in his mind, dubbed this one an ominous Nine Lokos — the point is.
The point is, this version is very, very flammable.
"Cover your face!"
He's snatched somebody's flickering torch from their hands, and he's going to do the first stupid thing that comes to mind.
He's spewing highly flammable liquid out of his mouth through the flames, to make a poor man's fire-breathing flamethrower. He's torching this motherfucker.