RONIN
the darkstar
light is easy to love.
"I am glad to hear it." Is this place cleaner than it was last night? Ronin wants to say yes, but also last night he was drunk as fuck by the end of it, so who the hell is he to know. Either way he reaches out to catch the shirt and hold it up, pulling a face at Remi. "This is the ugliest shirt I've ever seen," he tells him. "And I don't hate it." It worries him more than anything. "If you wouldn't mind," he says to the sweatpants too, and while the other man might be dithering about where to undress, the soldier has no such qualms.
Peeling off his shirt over his head and wrinkling his nose as he tries to fold it into some sort of soggy square, Ronin is just as pale as anyone might expect from an Irishman. His body is well muscled, nicked here and there with silver scars and one prominent starburst against the right side of his chest. A gunshot wound, clearly, still mostly pink. Recent. It's gone in a flash, though, as he pulls the new t-shirt over his head, already feeling much more comfortable.
Peeling off his shirt over his head and wrinkling his nose as he tries to fold it into some sort of soggy square, Ronin is just as pale as anyone might expect from an Irishman. His body is well muscled, nicked here and there with silver scars and one prominent starburst against the right side of his chest. A gunshot wound, clearly, still mostly pink. Recent. It's gone in a flash, though, as he pulls the new t-shirt over his head, already feeling much more comfortable.
show me your darkness.
