[ Daryl huffs something, just a grunt of acknowledgement, but there's something that indicates he's amused by that. Huge guy, carrying a bow and arrows, wouldn't bleed on a door. Kinda funny. ]
My blood's out there plenty already. [ This, too, seems almost like he thinks it's funny. There'd been no hesitation once he realized there was no other way out of the room— if someone was waiting down the hall, cackling menacingly over their Saw trap video feeds or whatever-the-fuck, he was fine with playing along to expedite an opportunity to beat that person's skull in.
But that hasn't happened. They're just here, which is far stranger than being captive rats in a maze.
He wipes down the leather with a damp rag and just a little handsoap, the water coming away brown and thin. Grease, grime, dirt, blood. Previously camouflaged flakes of gore become soft in the the removal process. Could also just be mud, though! Totally normal! ]
Mm? [ A question he hasn't received in a while, and it wins a brief glance over at the younger man. ] ... Had a bad wreck, a long time ago.
[ Not the deepest biker symbolism, but it does its job. Both a sign of mettle and pride, having survived something catastrophic that should have killed him, and a hopeful good luck charm. Once upon a time, its large wing patches and the laces up the sides had been a high point of the harassment he endured form his brother. That looks like a girl's, little bro— Tryin' to tell us something, Darlina— What a pretty little angel—
Stubbornness made him keep it. His excuse had always been it was simply too expensive to buy a new one and too much of a pain in the ass to modify, and nobody calls the Hells Angels pussies for being angels, so maybe fuck off. (But maybe, privately, it is pretty, and maybe he does like it.)
Anyway. That's all. Nothing divine, just coincidentally thematic. Sorry Alec. ]
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My blood's out there plenty already. [ This, too, seems almost like he thinks it's funny. There'd been no hesitation once he realized there was no other way out of the room— if someone was waiting down the hall, cackling menacingly over their Saw trap video feeds or whatever-the-fuck, he was fine with playing along to expedite an opportunity to beat that person's skull in.
But that hasn't happened. They're just here, which is far stranger than being captive rats in a maze.
He wipes down the leather with a damp rag and just a little handsoap, the water coming away brown and thin. Grease, grime, dirt, blood. Previously camouflaged flakes of gore become soft in the the removal process. Could also just be mud, though! Totally normal! ]
Mm? [ A question he hasn't received in a while, and it wins a brief glance over at the younger man. ] ... Had a bad wreck, a long time ago.
[ Not the deepest biker symbolism, but it does its job. Both a sign of mettle and pride, having survived something catastrophic that should have killed him, and a hopeful good luck charm. Once upon a time, its large wing patches and the laces up the sides had been a high point of the harassment he endured form his brother. That looks like a girl's, little bro— Tryin' to tell us something, Darlina— What a pretty little angel—
Stubbornness made him keep it. His excuse had always been it was simply too expensive to buy a new one and too much of a pain in the ass to modify, and nobody calls the Hells Angels pussies for being angels, so maybe fuck off. (But maybe, privately, it is pretty, and maybe he does like it.)
Anyway. That's all. Nothing divine, just coincidentally thematic. Sorry Alec. ]