Kaisel
Women come innately armed with a series of invisible traps that they can fling out at will. Some have better aim than others, and unfortunately for him, Flora might as well have a dexterity that rivals Ronin's. "I do like you!" he crows instantly, arms flung out on either side of him, palms skyward as though he intends to beseech divine aid in this matter, not about to let her slander his feelings even if in pretend. "ObbbbbvIously!" he scoffs. "I mean, I like like you girl," which, as everyone knows, is a tier above love. "I just also dislike nature, and both can be true at once, but I'm here and absolutely s'more-less at the moment, which I think speaks for itself." It's a grand, entirely unnecessary defense, but he's laid it out for the sake of understanding, certain if he let it pass by it'd come back to haunt him.
His utter disappointment in the record only being nine feet (an impressive and unwanted length in other matters) is made plain to the backpack as he frowns into it while performing his best magician's endless ribbon trick. "Lame," he announces, all dreams of his glow stone bedazzling gone out the window. Unlike some woodland wild child, he never carted the stones away from their resting place, doing as told, aside from the one he his friend ate. Take only memories and leave only footprints or some such Dragoon-scout-bullshit that'd been drilled into him.
Everything he's doing comes to a screeching halt as he catches a fucking stray for no reason. With the precision of machinery and the creep-factor of an old doll, Kaisel's head turns by degrees to level her with a flat stare. There's no real wound, but he holds her with the discomfort of it as long as he can manage, before sucking in a long, loud, slow breath, one that seems due to end at any moment before continuing. "If that were true, not that I'm saying it is, it would be because your highness is so damn fine. I mean, gyatt damn gurl, how do you make camping fit look so good?" Not that he hasn't been sneaking a look here and there, but he shamelessly gives her the once over now, humming with a satisfaction usually reserved for the first bite of a fantastic meal after being struck thoroughly by hunger.
Not only are women, especially Flora, experts with laying traps, but bitches can disarm them in a blink too. Caught red-handed in his friend of a friend of a sister's twice removed mother-in-law tale, he can't fight back the sheepish smile that blooms. "Hot tip, doesn't do shit."
Turning his backpack over and dangling out the rest of the contents, he finds the tent finally, the very last thing to come out, of course. "Alright, let's tag team this. Between the two of us, we're great at pitching a tent. You grab that end, I'll grab this end and we'll tug until it pops up." Not oblivious to his own words this time, his brows lift in expectation.
His utter disappointment in the record only being nine feet (an impressive and unwanted length in other matters) is made plain to the backpack as he frowns into it while performing his best magician's endless ribbon trick. "Lame," he announces, all dreams of his glow stone bedazzling gone out the window. Unlike some woodland wild child, he never carted the stones away from their resting place, doing as told, aside from the one he his friend ate. Take only memories and leave only footprints or some such Dragoon-scout-bullshit that'd been drilled into him.
Everything he's doing comes to a screeching halt as he catches a fucking stray for no reason. With the precision of machinery and the creep-factor of an old doll, Kaisel's head turns by degrees to level her with a flat stare. There's no real wound, but he holds her with the discomfort of it as long as he can manage, before sucking in a long, loud, slow breath, one that seems due to end at any moment before continuing. "If that were true, not that I'm saying it is, it would be because your highness is so damn fine. I mean, gyatt damn gurl, how do you make camping fit look so good?" Not that he hasn't been sneaking a look here and there, but he shamelessly gives her the once over now, humming with a satisfaction usually reserved for the first bite of a fantastic meal after being struck thoroughly by hunger.
Not only are women, especially Flora, experts with laying traps, but bitches can disarm them in a blink too. Caught red-handed in his friend of a friend of a sister's twice removed mother-in-law tale, he can't fight back the sheepish smile that blooms. "Hot tip, doesn't do shit."
Turning his backpack over and dangling out the rest of the contents, he finds the tent finally, the very last thing to come out, of course. "Alright, let's tag team this. Between the two of us, we're great at pitching a tent. You grab that end, I'll grab this end and we'll tug until it pops up." Not oblivious to his own words this time, his brows lift in expectation.
Haters on my back like a backpack
Blowin' up I'm fucking flawless
Blowin' up I'm fucking flawless
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
