we shall heal our wounds, collect our dead
"Am I wrong?" Ronin tugs his sleeve down over his hand and flaps the sweater at Sunjata, as if to demonstrate that the man beside him is very long limbed, if not spindly as he was perhaps suggesting. Shoving the sleeve back up, Ronin also takes another gulp of his drink, relishing the sting and burn of the alcohol and letting out a fluttering sort of sigh. "Whatever," he mutters, not believing his explanations but appreciating them nonetheless. "Oh, it's healed? That's good." The platitudes are the only thing he can offer, in current circumstances. But he is glad.
As Sunjata gets comfortable, Ronin doesn't truly believe he's capable of doing the same. But his friend doesn't look as though he's going anywhere, and so - knocking back the rest of his drink and setting the glass down - the Star slumps promptly to the side, using the Flood's lap as a pillow. "Don't make this weird," he mutters, like he hasn't just been the one to do just that.
As Sunjata gets comfortable, Ronin doesn't truly believe he's capable of doing the same. But his friend doesn't look as though he's going anywhere, and so - knocking back the rest of his drink and setting the glass down - the Star slumps promptly to the side, using the Flood's lap as a pillow. "Don't make this weird," he mutters, like he hasn't just been the one to do just that.
THE DARK STAR
and continue fighting
