Pawing at his mouth has little effect, but old habits die hard and Blake smears around whatever's on his tattered sleeves with whatever's on his face. It's downright disgusting, practically nightmare fuel for someone so fussy as Blake, but he's long since forgotten about anything relating to comfort. He barely sleeps, he's got open wounds filled with thorns, and all he can think about is how thirsty he is and how (mostly) no one seems to care.
"You— make stuff," he repeats, dubious leaning towards suspicious again. That's called a job, Blake thinks, stupidly, but instead says, "Pit concierge, got it." A joke? Maybe not so much despite the bitterness spread across his tongue from the coffee he'd just consumed. It's hard to tell if he's only delirious from lack of nutrients or just plain whacked-out due to the ritual. Could be both.
"Which way to— Uh, which way's the elevator? This way?" He's moving again, one hand scraping along the wall to keep his balance, the other curled in close for what little protection it offers his current wounds.
If Jack doesn't care to stop him, he'll likely walk on to create issues for the next person he stumbles across, muttering to himself incomprehensibly in his search for food and water.
no subject
"You— make stuff," he repeats, dubious leaning towards suspicious again. That's called a job, Blake thinks, stupidly, but instead says, "Pit concierge, got it." A joke? Maybe not so much despite the bitterness spread across his tongue from the coffee he'd just consumed. It's hard to tell if he's only delirious from lack of nutrients or just plain whacked-out due to the ritual. Could be both.
"Which way to— Uh, which way's the elevator? This way?" He's moving again, one hand scraping along the wall to keep his balance, the other curled in close for what little protection it offers his current wounds.
If Jack doesn't care to stop him, he'll likely walk on to create issues for the next person he stumbles across, muttering to himself incomprehensibly in his search for food and water.