12-17-2020, 11:40 PM
GRIMJAW
It doesn’t occur to him that he could admire her body in whatever depraved sense he liked. Grimjaw thinks she’s lovely, of course, but all bodies are essentially the same to him - blood and guts all wrapped up in skin. They’re all ugly on the inside, that way.
He looks past her to the frigid dark between the trees of the forest. The shadows twist and flex to sculpt all kinds of imagined horrors for him as he stares far too long. All that endless black had never frightened him back in the swamps where he grew up, but he thinks it could genuinely hide awful creatures here. He much preferred fearing the light, he thinks. At least that was a familiar sort of nightmare to deal with.
Grimjaw doesn’t budge when Wishbone lessens the distance between them. His bright red gaze returns to her, though, and he tilts his horned head to study her. So she fears that dizzying night in there, too? He hums softly in thought but whatever conclusions he reaches never makes it to his lips to form into words. Instead, he offers a light shrug when she asks where he came from.
“I was raised in a bayou with crocodiles and wisps. Then I left, maybe a year ago, and started wandering.” He offers no further details or even seems interested in his own tale beyond these sparse facts. “What about you, Wishbone? Where did you grow up and why aren’t you there still?”
The cherry red of his eyes find hers with a calculated degree of interest. He isn’t entirely sure if she still calls her birthplace home but he makes the gamble anyway. The question always makes for interesting answers either way, he thinks.
He looks past her to the frigid dark between the trees of the forest. The shadows twist and flex to sculpt all kinds of imagined horrors for him as he stares far too long. All that endless black had never frightened him back in the swamps where he grew up, but he thinks it could genuinely hide awful creatures here. He much preferred fearing the light, he thinks. At least that was a familiar sort of nightmare to deal with.
Grimjaw doesn’t budge when Wishbone lessens the distance between them. His bright red gaze returns to her, though, and he tilts his horned head to study her. So she fears that dizzying night in there, too? He hums softly in thought but whatever conclusions he reaches never makes it to his lips to form into words. Instead, he offers a light shrug when she asks where he came from.
“I was raised in a bayou with crocodiles and wisps. Then I left, maybe a year ago, and started wandering.” He offers no further details or even seems interested in his own tale beyond these sparse facts. “What about you, Wishbone? Where did you grow up and why aren’t you there still?”
The cherry red of his eyes find hers with a calculated degree of interest. He isn’t entirely sure if she still calls her birthplace home but he makes the gamble anyway. The question always makes for interesting answers either way, he thinks.