[He pauses to wipe some hot grease off his lips onto his arm, eying him across the spitting flames. But he gives in without word, unbuckling each boot and shucking them off, half-tempted to pull away from the fire just to dip his feet into the pond behind them. Despite his familiarity making do with what the wilderness provides, he longs for the luxury of a bath, the chance to wash away blood and sweat and dirt, fresh and old, griming his skin. One of the more unusual habits he owed Dracula and the castle for instilling in him. God forbid if he had ever presented himself in the throne room a second time smelling like rank goat.
Crossing his legs, he takes up a stick and stirs the logs some, throwing another look around the clearing. It feels too open to give himself permission to fully relax; no walls to put his back up against. Were there trees of a different sort in their midst, with thicker branches and no needles, he'd consider climbing up and sleeping leaned up against the trunk, readily trading comfort for a sense of safety and a decent vantage point.]
I do hope you are prepared for the morrow. [He husks, as if Hector spent most of the trip lagging behind. And because he didn't, it's nothing more than some half-hearted attempt to make conversation.]
no subject
Crossing his legs, he takes up a stick and stirs the logs some, throwing another look around the clearing. It feels too open to give himself permission to fully relax; no walls to put his back up against. Were there trees of a different sort in their midst, with thicker branches and no needles, he'd consider climbing up and sleeping leaned up against the trunk, readily trading comfort for a sense of safety and a decent vantage point.]
I do hope you are prepared for the morrow. [He husks, as if Hector spent most of the trip lagging behind. And because he didn't, it's nothing more than some half-hearted attempt to make conversation.]