a devil on the run, a six gun lover, a candle in the wind
"Maybe before that thing threw a tree at me, I was," Arsen mutters, talons flexing in the dirt, and he hisses out a distainful sort of scoff to hear that vengeance was, indeed, the nature of the game today. Not that he's aware that he's in his own subconscious, of course; were that the case, it might be a different sort of vengeance he'd be interested in. (And of course it escapes him that, were it not for his needless act of cruelty to begin with, none of this would be happening).
"Mm? No," he says with a snort. "I ain't from anywhere you've heard from. Born of the wind, me." It's both true and it isn't, and one thing is clear; Arsen isn't keen to share. Not where he's from, not how he's gotten here, not how he plans to get back.
"Mm? No," he says with a snort. "I ain't from anywhere you've heard from. Born of the wind, me." It's both true and it isn't, and one thing is clear; Arsen isn't keen to share. Not where he's from, not how he's gotten here, not how he plans to get back.
Arsen
