"Guess I'll have to wait 'til I can scrub the mud off."
There's a loud noise from his stomach. He had eaten something to quell the growls of the morning, but it wasn't sufficient enough to be called breakfast or lunch. He didn't notice his own hunger until now. He'll have to get something substantial when it was proper meal time again.
Well. There's more food in front of him now. Guts quickly demonstrates that he is not picky, giving the peach only a cursory examination before starting to tear it apart with his teeth. All he had thought to check was if it was covered in juice and not ointment. After ripping a chunk from the pit not unlike tearing meat off a bone, he answers her again:
"If your hands hurt, I can chop up the rest of them." Chew, chew.
For whatever reason, the impulse comes naturally. A fuzzy imprint, not quite a memory, sits somewhere in the back of his head. A half-face marred by the disease - in time, he may end up fully forgeting the details of her with how distant it was. Plague, they said. He was supposed to be afraid, and yet, found himself sticking close to the deteriorating body, grasping as hard as he could. Her death was twelve years ago.
For whatever reason, Hesri's kindness kindled some mote of a similar feeling. He wasn't afraid, so he offers a hand instead.
no subject
There's a loud noise from his stomach. He had eaten something to quell the growls of the morning, but it wasn't sufficient enough to be called breakfast or lunch. He didn't notice his own hunger until now. He'll have to get something substantial when it was proper meal time again.
Well. There's more food in front of him now. Guts quickly demonstrates that he is not picky, giving the peach only a cursory examination before starting to tear it apart with his teeth. All he had thought to check was if it was covered in juice and not ointment. After ripping a chunk from the pit not unlike tearing meat off a bone, he answers her again:
"If your hands hurt, I can chop up the rest of them." Chew, chew.
For whatever reason, the impulse comes naturally. A fuzzy imprint, not quite a memory, sits somewhere in the back of his head. A half-face marred by the disease - in time, he may end up fully forgeting the details of her with how distant it was. Plague, they said. He was supposed to be afraid, and yet, found himself sticking close to the deteriorating body, grasping as hard as he could. Her death was twelve years ago.
For whatever reason, Hesri's kindness kindled some mote of a similar feeling. He wasn't afraid, so he offers a hand instead.