( If only it were so simple as her being the simpering and shaking type. It's just so much easier when people are frightened of him, or at the very least, inherently repulsed enough that they find themselves in a hurry to get away from him. It's a rare and annoying few who are, for whatever reason, immune to both his attitude and the grotesque sight of his scarred, ugly mug.
Bloody inconvenient time to find bravery here.
If we both look for it. He growls out an unhappy sound, low and annoyed. It should have pink ribbons on it. )
Of fucking course it does.
( Gods forbid anything about this girl not be pink. Looking at her's a bit like setting his bloody eyes on fire.
There's nothing for it. She won't leave. He could carry her, he muses — throw her over his shoulder, haul her bodily out. But then she might scream, and bring down the whole fucking town of spiders upon them in one fell swoop. It's not worth the risk.
Fuck.
And thus begins his searching, annoyance written in every line of his posture, brusque in manner as he yanks chairs out of the way or gently kicks foliage in the hopes that one of her stupid ribbons will stand out. Unsurprisingly, he isn't having very much luck.
He does, however, manage to uncover a spider the size of a fucking dog by opening up the wrong cupboard. The fucker launches itself directly out at him like a huntsman, fangs aiming for his throat. He only just manages to wheel himself out of the way in time; it goes skittering across the floor toward her, all legs moving in jerky and horrifying graces, drawn by the vibrant color of her hair.
His sword slams down into it about a foot from her, spattering them both with viscera. The legs carry on twitching, but the cunt's shorn clean in half. It's not going anywhere. )
no subject
Bloody inconvenient time to find bravery here.
If we both look for it. He growls out an unhappy sound, low and annoyed. It should have pink ribbons on it. )
Of fucking course it does.
( Gods forbid anything about this girl not be pink. Looking at her's a bit like setting his bloody eyes on fire.
There's nothing for it. She won't leave. He could carry her, he muses — throw her over his shoulder, haul her bodily out. But then she might scream, and bring down the whole fucking town of spiders upon them in one fell swoop. It's not worth the risk.
Fuck.
And thus begins his searching, annoyance written in every line of his posture, brusque in manner as he yanks chairs out of the way or gently kicks foliage in the hopes that one of her stupid ribbons will stand out. Unsurprisingly, he isn't having very much luck.
He does, however, manage to uncover a spider the size of a fucking dog by opening up the wrong cupboard. The fucker launches itself directly out at him like a huntsman, fangs aiming for his throat. He only just manages to wheel himself out of the way in time; it goes skittering across the floor toward her, all legs moving in jerky and horrifying graces, drawn by the vibrant color of her hair.
His sword slams down into it about a foot from her, spattering them both with viscera. The legs carry on twitching, but the cunt's shorn clean in half. It's not going anywhere. )