08-26-2013, 09:08 PM
Blood spoke louder than words.
He stood on the edge of the gate through the frisking. Gave the bat up without question and when the ghoul stepped forward to claim the spotlight, he dutiful paid her heed. From one lackey to a head lackey. His attention was full, seemingly editing out the presence of the other guards until they stepped back, leaving the ghoul and him to speak.
She repeats his statement of 'The Throne' and he offers a sharp nod of confirmation, only to have it dressed downward, a vague frown clouding mahogany features when she offers a lighter note of mirth about the effort.
He follows in her footsteps, the tour seemingly left to pass them without comment and much of an interruption. There is the briefest of pauses by the head, a recognition of something well outside of the ordinary (because Vaults, Fanciful decorations and parapets among that description) that has him regarding the mauled remains before he continues on in Estelle's wake.
It isn't until they reach the war-room that Gray turns to scan his surroundings. They light the catwalk and Rasmussen has all the time in the world to step forward and confer briefly with Estelle, an introduction received and provided in kind. The words draw Gray around to regard the man.
"Evenin'." He tugs at the brim of the shallow cap, something one might find doffed on a newsie back in the day, the long-coat with the orange elbow patches, fit with his fists in either pocket, forcing the opening closed, obscuring the dirty white t-shirt and it's vague stains (reds, dark browns and a yellow or two). The boots clung loudly on the catwalk.
The pair can meet eye to eye, give or take a sliver. Gray is tall. Lean. Heavily bearded, enough that much of his face is an obscurity in and of itself.
"I'm here for information and..." A pause. Considering how to phrase what comes next. "...closure. Someone used to work for you. Does work for you. One or the other. She was meant to find me six days ago. She never did."
He sucks in a breath, something reflexive and entirely telling of his lack of years, gaze remaining with the Prince.
"I don't know her name. She was tall. Long dark hair. Hispanic. No accent. About-" He taps his chest, just beneath the beard "-this high."
The question at the end remains unasked, probably because it was obvious. Maybe because it might make a statement, like he was giving out an order.
Where is she?
He stood on the edge of the gate through the frisking. Gave the bat up without question and when the ghoul stepped forward to claim the spotlight, he dutiful paid her heed. From one lackey to a head lackey. His attention was full, seemingly editing out the presence of the other guards until they stepped back, leaving the ghoul and him to speak.
She repeats his statement of 'The Throne' and he offers a sharp nod of confirmation, only to have it dressed downward, a vague frown clouding mahogany features when she offers a lighter note of mirth about the effort.
He follows in her footsteps, the tour seemingly left to pass them without comment and much of an interruption. There is the briefest of pauses by the head, a recognition of something well outside of the ordinary (because Vaults, Fanciful decorations and parapets among that description) that has him regarding the mauled remains before he continues on in Estelle's wake.
It isn't until they reach the war-room that Gray turns to scan his surroundings. They light the catwalk and Rasmussen has all the time in the world to step forward and confer briefly with Estelle, an introduction received and provided in kind. The words draw Gray around to regard the man.
"Evenin'." He tugs at the brim of the shallow cap, something one might find doffed on a newsie back in the day, the long-coat with the orange elbow patches, fit with his fists in either pocket, forcing the opening closed, obscuring the dirty white t-shirt and it's vague stains (reds, dark browns and a yellow or two). The boots clung loudly on the catwalk.
The pair can meet eye to eye, give or take a sliver. Gray is tall. Lean. Heavily bearded, enough that much of his face is an obscurity in and of itself.
"I'm here for information and..." A pause. Considering how to phrase what comes next. "...closure. Someone used to work for you. Does work for you. One or the other. She was meant to find me six days ago. She never did."
He sucks in a breath, something reflexive and entirely telling of his lack of years, gaze remaining with the Prince.
"I don't know her name. She was tall. Long dark hair. Hispanic. No accent. About-" He taps his chest, just beneath the beard "-this high."
The question at the end remains unasked, probably because it was obvious. Maybe because it might make a statement, like he was giving out an order.
Where is she?