Arsen
"Long as no one bites me on the arse again, I reckon I'll be a'right," Arsen informs Oliver, following after him down the beach and assuming he's going to lead them to this damn good bar that some bitch called Raza runs. Running his tongue along his teeth, the harpy gazes out at the sun glinting off the ocean, squinting a bit as it blinds him but doing absolutely nothing to try and look away.
"Sick?" he says, like it's an afterthought, and he glances over Oliver as if trying to tell whether or not he's still unwell. Arsen might be a risk taker, but he's not in this to get a fuckin' plague or whatever. "What with?" he asks, turning his attention now to where the beach sprawls off ahead. "An' where's this bar?"
"Sick?" he says, like it's an afterthought, and he glances over Oliver as if trying to tell whether or not he's still unwell. Arsen might be a risk taker, but he's not in this to get a fuckin' plague or whatever. "What with?" he asks, turning his attention now to where the beach sprawls off ahead. "An' where's this bar?"
you ask if i'll grow to be a wise man
well i ask if i'll grow old
well i ask if i'll grow old
