[ Carver shoots him a narrow look, distrusting anything resembling old-world courtesy - everyone has an angle, everyone is a threat - but doesn’t challenge it. He just ducks inside to go see what he’s dealing with.
To his surprise - and quiet, aching relief - his original clothes are waiting for him, alongside his blade, mask, and the pendant he wears in place of dog tags. It doesn’t matter except for when it does - a symbol in world that’s been burned to ash and will continue burning until the bitter end.
He tugs the pendant on - a sword in a metal circle - and sheaths the knife at his belt for an easy draw, though after a moment he tucks his coat over it. People around here don’t wear their weapons quite so openly and he’s not a complete moron. Blending in will matter.
This place has food. Walls. His people could live here. No more hard winters gambling on whether their food stores will hold out. No more dead clamoring against their blades. No more forgotten graves.
It’s a nice dream, anyway.
The mask he leaves. No point in it right now.
When he returns, he’s dressed in his new coat and boots, and his old uniform - such as it is - of battered blacks, worn and carefully mended. A hood if he needs it - and the fabric bunched deliberately to hide the line on his neck.
He gives Scott an assessing look. ]
So. Food.
[ Carver knows what it means to starve. He won’t turn the offer of food down here, even if he doesn’t trust Scott at all. ]
no subject
To his surprise - and quiet, aching relief - his original clothes are waiting for him, alongside his blade, mask, and the pendant he wears in place of dog tags. It doesn’t matter except for when it does - a symbol in world that’s been burned to ash and will continue burning until the bitter end.
He tugs the pendant on - a sword in a metal circle - and sheaths the knife at his belt for an easy draw, though after a moment he tucks his coat over it. People around here don’t wear their weapons quite so openly and he’s not a complete moron. Blending in will matter.
This place has food. Walls. His people could live here. No more hard winters gambling on whether their food stores will hold out. No more dead clamoring against their blades. No more forgotten graves.
It’s a nice dream, anyway.
The mask he leaves. No point in it right now.
When he returns, he’s dressed in his new coat and boots, and his old uniform - such as it is - of battered blacks, worn and carefully mended. A hood if he needs it - and the fabric bunched deliberately to hide the line on his neck.
He gives Scott an assessing look. ]
So. Food.
[ Carver knows what it means to starve. He won’t turn the offer of food down here, even if he doesn’t trust Scott at all. ]