08-06-2018, 01:12 PM
[size=9pt]Moon'll be honest; he wasn't surprised in the slightest. In fact, his face remained completely unpertrubed, blank with one brow raised. Perhaps it was the sleepless night that had left him this way; lacking a smile or mollycoddling he'd typically get up to. Like this, he was flat. He listens to the foreign language and, this time, doesn't even bother himself asking for a translation. He doubts he'd get one, anyway. "Para de whatever." He says, and carries himself on heavy paws to the wall that Lazarus sits at. The canine's growl lands on deaf ears and Moon drops himself a space or two away from him, facing towards the grassy plains instead of looking the dog in the eye. So what if he lunged for him; maybe Moon was asking for it. It's not like he couldn't patch himself up.
"Probably. But I tend not to pick the better things." He says, failing to stifle a yawn that rips through his words. "So you got me. Consider yourself lucky. There's a whole lot worse fuckers in this place you could've ended up with."
The sound of the wood across the ground gets his attention and, cartoonish, he flicks his gaze to it without moving his head. He's a curious dumbass, that much he knows, and some day he'll get himself killed for it. No self control, no filter, no care. But now, he stares the wood down and considers that maybe he should respect Lazarus' privacy and not dive for it liked a starved woodpecker. He stays seated, claws latched into the ground, and tries for an alternative route in. "It's not a secret portrait, is it? You carving me, tortured artist? 'Paint me like one of your french girls' type shit? I'm flattered."
"Probably. But I tend not to pick the better things." He says, failing to stifle a yawn that rips through his words. "So you got me. Consider yourself lucky. There's a whole lot worse fuckers in this place you could've ended up with."
The sound of the wood across the ground gets his attention and, cartoonish, he flicks his gaze to it without moving his head. He's a curious dumbass, that much he knows, and some day he'll get himself killed for it. No self control, no filter, no care. But now, he stares the wood down and considers that maybe he should respect Lazarus' privacy and not dive for it liked a starved woodpecker. He stays seated, claws latched into the ground, and tries for an alternative route in. "It's not a secret portrait, is it? You carving me, tortured artist? 'Paint me like one of your french girls' type shit? I'm flattered."
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; height: auto; text-align: center; font-family: ; font-size: 9pt; color: COLOR; letter-spacing: -.5px;"][i][b]and die like a hero going home.[glow=black,2,300]