the wounds are open and bleeding out
It's raw and it's hollow and it hurts, and no amount of booze will fill that hole. But that's not to say that Ronin hasn't tried, and the empty bottles painstakingly stacked inside the door to the Slagveld are testament to that. There's one still half full tinkling in his hand as he ducks beneath the ropes of the boxing ring, bare feet pressing into the soft sand as though to savour it. Not that he can really feel his fingers and toes.
With eyes ringed red and some shitty song or another humming out from chapped lips, Ronin runs his fingers over the ropes, strolling (weaving, stumbling) around the interior of the ring as if that might offer him some answers. As if that might take him home, wherever Remi might be. He can't replicate the pain caused to the man he's meant to love the most - worse still, he can't even replicate himself to give himself a good old fashioned beating for it.
So Ronin is here, looking for he doesn't know what, taking a swig from the bottle of rum loose in his fingers and wishing for the taste of blood instead.
With eyes ringed red and some shitty song or another humming out from chapped lips, Ronin runs his fingers over the ropes, strolling (weaving, stumbling) around the interior of the ring as if that might offer him some answers. As if that might take him home, wherever Remi might be. He can't replicate the pain caused to the man he's meant to love the most - worse still, he can't even replicate himself to give himself a good old fashioned beating for it.
So Ronin is here, looking for he doesn't know what, taking a swig from the bottle of rum loose in his fingers and wishing for the taste of blood instead.
THE
DARK STAR
