Nicholas D. Wolfwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lastdecember) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-01-07 06:49 pm
lastdecember) wrote in singillatim2024-01-07 06:49 pm
One more time and you'll be dead
Who: Wolfwood and YOU!
What: January catch-all, for event and non-event shenanigans
When: All through the month
Where: Milton and the surrounding environs
Warnings: Nothing yet; will update! See also warnings for individual comments in subject headers
locked to Astarion
He wakes up warm.
It doesn't register at first, as he's still shaking off the traces of the dream. They're always bad, his dreams, always full of blood and screaming, but since he's come here to Milton, they've been different. Stranger. They're not always memories anymore, not just visions of things he's done, things he's endured, things he's stood back and let happen to others. No, Milton's fucking with his head in more ways than one, and he has to say, if his dreams continue being odd horror movies instead of memories? He'll take it. He'll take it all the way to the bank.
There was a woman in this one, he thinks, trying to recall the details as he dresses for the day. A familiar woman, although he can't recall her face, or her name. She'd asked for his help, was that it? And then he'd been somewhere else, and there'd been a fire. He shivers a little, pulling on his boots. That part, he remembers. Nothing hurts like being burned.
But he's awoken without a scratch on him, and for the first time since he'd arrived in this frozen hellhole, he felt toasty. Not hot, not by a long shot -- this world will never be a desert with two suns -- but pleasantly warm. Warm enough that he lets his scarf hang from his shoulders instead of knotting it tight around his throat. Warm enough that he leaves his gloves in his coat pocket, and even the brisk air outside doesn't have him fumbling to put them back on.
He's warm.
Today's already shaping up to be a great day, he can feel it!
--------------------------------
locked to Raju
A few days after the aurora, when the sky clears and all the electronics have died back to useless hunks of metal and wire, Wolfwood's heading out into a nearby grove of trees to collect firewood. The idea of burning wood for heat is still tough to wrap his head around -- the idea of having trees around to begin with is strange! -- but it burns warmly, the smoke's not unpleasant compared to some things he's burned for heat before, and there's sure plenty of trees around.
The ax sits comfortably in his palm, and the thud when the head bites out a chunk of an aspen's leafless trunk is deeply satisfying. Two or three of these big boys, and he'll have enough wood for the week, and plenty to share around!
--------------------------------
locked to Goodsir
His wrist's been throbbing for three weeks, and he's finally had enough. Normally something this small wouldn't be worth the effort to even notice it -- sure, his wrist is broken, but not badly. It's just one little bone, as far as he can tell, and it's not stopping him from going about his day, not really. He can still do all the chores needed to stay alive in this miserable cold wasteland, can still feed and dress himself, can still shoot (not that he's wasting bullets to test that theory, mind)... but it hurts. It hurts when he rolls over on it in the night, it hurts when he swings an ax or lifts a heavy load of lumber, it hurts when he presses on it to push himself out of bed in the morning. Vash had wrapped it that first day, and Wolfwood had rewrapped it a time or too, but a snug scrap of sheeting wasn't doing anything for the ache.
He's tired of aching.
So a little before noon he's stomping his way across town to the address posted on the flyer, to track down an H.D.S. Goodsir, assistant surgeon, and to figure out why, after almost a month, his damn broken bone still hurts.
--------------------------------
locked to Ruby
The aurora's passed, the days are light again -- or as light as they ever get in this dim, miserable place -- and Wolfwood's running out of things to do. He's tried hunting, but he's only got so many bullets left and he'd rather save them for a fight. He's tried collecting firewood, but that only keeps him busy for so many hours during the day. The house he's moved into isn't in very good repair, but with a broken wrist and less strength than he's used to, going up on the roof to fix all those leaks seems like a good way to kill himself. (It's still on his list of things to do, just maybe after he finishes healing).
So that leaves security. There's no fence around the town, no watchtowers, nothing to stop something like that serpent from sliding itself right up Main street and eating half the town. If they're going to be stuck here for the time being, they need to have better security than just trusting in the cold to keep intruders out.
It's not long after dawn that he sets out, walking the perimeter of the town and making mental note of what the surrounding environment looks like. It'll take a lot to make this place secure, but every little bit'll help.
--------------------------------
locked to Bigby
He's started seeing it in the daytime. It follows him through town, peers through his windows at night, hovers just past his shoulder. He's wasted three bullets on the thing already, plugging slugs into the walls of his room when he wakes in the night, already sweating from a nightmare, to find his own ghost watching him from the foot of his bed.
He doesn't know what it wants -- it won't answer him, not when he threatens it and not when he pleads with it -- but after a couple of days, he thinks he's figured it out. Vash said that people here had seen ghosts, which Wolfwood had assumed meant the ghosts that they'd killed. He's been waiting to see familiar faces, honestly, some of the dozens (maybe hundreds?) of people he's gunned down over the years, but the only ghost that's haunting him is his own.
Because he got himself killed, didn't he? He knew what was waiting for him in December, knew that he'd need help to win that fight, and he'd gone alone anyway. He'd killed himself through his own stupidity, and now the ghost of that dead man wanted its revenge.
That's okay, he thinks, stumbling down the street in the middle of the night, hunched over against the cold. He's hurt so many people over the years -- if this is how they're taking their vengeance, then they're welcome to it. He deserves this torment.
--------------------------------
Locked to Knives:
The houses have been pretty well picked over by the time Wolfwood gets to them. It’s not surprising – none of them have shown up here ready for the cold, and those first few people didn’t have anyone but the old man here to help them out. The warm clothes are missing, as are all of the tinned goods in the cupboards. He hasn’t found a house yet that has so much as a handgun, although there’s been a few where it’s clear a gun had been there once. People have been pretty thorough in their resource collecting.
But Wolfwood’s not here for food or socks. He’s got a sturdy satchel over one shoulder that clinks quietly as he moves, and he’s found a crowbar that now hangs from his belt that he’s been using to break into any houses where the front door is still locked. It’s harder than it should be, to break into a house without messing up the doorframe too much – future visitors might need to take shelter in these houses, he knows, so he’s doing what he can to keep them in good condition.
He wedges the end of the crowbar between the door and the frame right at the lock point and leans his weight into the bar, listening to the wood groan. He’s getting better at this – if he does it right, the frame will only splinter right where the latch is, and the door will still be usable. It takes time, though. Everything takes time, now that he’s weak like a normal man.
--------------------------------
locked to Vash
It's been a month, and he's almost used to the sight of snow instead of sand, of gleaming, blindingwhite instead of the reds and oranges and dazzling golds of the desert. Almost. He's almost used to the dark, the dim single sun not ever putting out enough heat to warm his bones, almost used to the short days and long, cold nights. Almost.
The sight of water bubbling up from between the rocks, though, is almost too much to accept. It's so much water – and it's hot water, too – he can see the steam rising up past the horizon before the water even comes into view.
He'd been picturing a kind of bath, but out in the open... and he hadn't been all that sure how he felt about the invitation, to be totally honest. He'd come along, mostly drawn by his begruding willingness to do whatever Vash suggests, but his expectations hadn't been high. And he's never been so happy to be wrong! This place is something out of a dream. It's bigger than he thought it'd be, and both weird and strangely familiar.
His pace speeds up as they approach the edge of the pool, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. “This place just gets stranger by the day. Are you seeing this?” Of course he's seen it, Wolfwood knows, but it's just so... so weird. That's a whole canyon, but it's full of hot water! There's been so much new in this month – the climate here is so wet, he's taking ages to heal, he's weak and tired all the time, problems are bigger when he can't just shoot his way into a solution... but he can smell the heat of that pool from here, and he can't wait to duck beneath the surface.
He looks around for anyone else in sight, but the place is empty of people, and so he's already reaching for the zipper on his jacket as he turns to Vash with a laugh: “We can just get in, right?”
Wildcard:
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notJoe or on the plotting post and let's plot!
What: January catch-all, for event and non-event shenanigans
When: All through the month
Where: Milton and the surrounding environs
Warnings: Nothing yet; will update! See also warnings for individual comments in subject headers
locked to Astarion
He wakes up warm.
It doesn't register at first, as he's still shaking off the traces of the dream. They're always bad, his dreams, always full of blood and screaming, but since he's come here to Milton, they've been different. Stranger. They're not always memories anymore, not just visions of things he's done, things he's endured, things he's stood back and let happen to others. No, Milton's fucking with his head in more ways than one, and he has to say, if his dreams continue being odd horror movies instead of memories? He'll take it. He'll take it all the way to the bank.
There was a woman in this one, he thinks, trying to recall the details as he dresses for the day. A familiar woman, although he can't recall her face, or her name. She'd asked for his help, was that it? And then he'd been somewhere else, and there'd been a fire. He shivers a little, pulling on his boots. That part, he remembers. Nothing hurts like being burned.
But he's awoken without a scratch on him, and for the first time since he'd arrived in this frozen hellhole, he felt toasty. Not hot, not by a long shot -- this world will never be a desert with two suns -- but pleasantly warm. Warm enough that he lets his scarf hang from his shoulders instead of knotting it tight around his throat. Warm enough that he leaves his gloves in his coat pocket, and even the brisk air outside doesn't have him fumbling to put them back on.
He's warm.
Today's already shaping up to be a great day, he can feel it!
--------------------------------
locked to Raju
A few days after the aurora, when the sky clears and all the electronics have died back to useless hunks of metal and wire, Wolfwood's heading out into a nearby grove of trees to collect firewood. The idea of burning wood for heat is still tough to wrap his head around -- the idea of having trees around to begin with is strange! -- but it burns warmly, the smoke's not unpleasant compared to some things he's burned for heat before, and there's sure plenty of trees around.
The ax sits comfortably in his palm, and the thud when the head bites out a chunk of an aspen's leafless trunk is deeply satisfying. Two or three of these big boys, and he'll have enough wood for the week, and plenty to share around!
--------------------------------
locked to Goodsir
His wrist's been throbbing for three weeks, and he's finally had enough. Normally something this small wouldn't be worth the effort to even notice it -- sure, his wrist is broken, but not badly. It's just one little bone, as far as he can tell, and it's not stopping him from going about his day, not really. He can still do all the chores needed to stay alive in this miserable cold wasteland, can still feed and dress himself, can still shoot (not that he's wasting bullets to test that theory, mind)... but it hurts. It hurts when he rolls over on it in the night, it hurts when he swings an ax or lifts a heavy load of lumber, it hurts when he presses on it to push himself out of bed in the morning. Vash had wrapped it that first day, and Wolfwood had rewrapped it a time or too, but a snug scrap of sheeting wasn't doing anything for the ache.
He's tired of aching.
So a little before noon he's stomping his way across town to the address posted on the flyer, to track down an H.D.S. Goodsir, assistant surgeon, and to figure out why, after almost a month, his damn broken bone still hurts.
--------------------------------
locked to Ruby
The aurora's passed, the days are light again -- or as light as they ever get in this dim, miserable place -- and Wolfwood's running out of things to do. He's tried hunting, but he's only got so many bullets left and he'd rather save them for a fight. He's tried collecting firewood, but that only keeps him busy for so many hours during the day. The house he's moved into isn't in very good repair, but with a broken wrist and less strength than he's used to, going up on the roof to fix all those leaks seems like a good way to kill himself. (It's still on his list of things to do, just maybe after he finishes healing).
So that leaves security. There's no fence around the town, no watchtowers, nothing to stop something like that serpent from sliding itself right up Main street and eating half the town. If they're going to be stuck here for the time being, they need to have better security than just trusting in the cold to keep intruders out.
It's not long after dawn that he sets out, walking the perimeter of the town and making mental note of what the surrounding environment looks like. It'll take a lot to make this place secure, but every little bit'll help.
--------------------------------
locked to Bigby
He's started seeing it in the daytime. It follows him through town, peers through his windows at night, hovers just past his shoulder. He's wasted three bullets on the thing already, plugging slugs into the walls of his room when he wakes in the night, already sweating from a nightmare, to find his own ghost watching him from the foot of his bed.
He doesn't know what it wants -- it won't answer him, not when he threatens it and not when he pleads with it -- but after a couple of days, he thinks he's figured it out. Vash said that people here had seen ghosts, which Wolfwood had assumed meant the ghosts that they'd killed. He's been waiting to see familiar faces, honestly, some of the dozens (maybe hundreds?) of people he's gunned down over the years, but the only ghost that's haunting him is his own.
Because he got himself killed, didn't he? He knew what was waiting for him in December, knew that he'd need help to win that fight, and he'd gone alone anyway. He'd killed himself through his own stupidity, and now the ghost of that dead man wanted its revenge.
That's okay, he thinks, stumbling down the street in the middle of the night, hunched over against the cold. He's hurt so many people over the years -- if this is how they're taking their vengeance, then they're welcome to it. He deserves this torment.
--------------------------------
Locked to Knives:
The houses have been pretty well picked over by the time Wolfwood gets to them. It’s not surprising – none of them have shown up here ready for the cold, and those first few people didn’t have anyone but the old man here to help them out. The warm clothes are missing, as are all of the tinned goods in the cupboards. He hasn’t found a house yet that has so much as a handgun, although there’s been a few where it’s clear a gun had been there once. People have been pretty thorough in their resource collecting.
But Wolfwood’s not here for food or socks. He’s got a sturdy satchel over one shoulder that clinks quietly as he moves, and he’s found a crowbar that now hangs from his belt that he’s been using to break into any houses where the front door is still locked. It’s harder than it should be, to break into a house without messing up the doorframe too much – future visitors might need to take shelter in these houses, he knows, so he’s doing what he can to keep them in good condition.
He wedges the end of the crowbar between the door and the frame right at the lock point and leans his weight into the bar, listening to the wood groan. He’s getting better at this – if he does it right, the frame will only splinter right where the latch is, and the door will still be usable. It takes time, though. Everything takes time, now that he’s weak like a normal man.
--------------------------------
locked to Vash
It's been a month, and he's almost used to the sight of snow instead of sand, of gleaming, blindingwhite instead of the reds and oranges and dazzling golds of the desert. Almost. He's almost used to the dark, the dim single sun not ever putting out enough heat to warm his bones, almost used to the short days and long, cold nights. Almost.
The sight of water bubbling up from between the rocks, though, is almost too much to accept. It's so much water – and it's hot water, too – he can see the steam rising up past the horizon before the water even comes into view.
He'd been picturing a kind of bath, but out in the open... and he hadn't been all that sure how he felt about the invitation, to be totally honest. He'd come along, mostly drawn by his begruding willingness to do whatever Vash suggests, but his expectations hadn't been high. And he's never been so happy to be wrong! This place is something out of a dream. It's bigger than he thought it'd be, and both weird and strangely familiar.
His pace speeds up as they approach the edge of the pool, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. “This place just gets stranger by the day. Are you seeing this?” Of course he's seen it, Wolfwood knows, but it's just so... so weird. That's a whole canyon, but it's full of hot water! There's been so much new in this month – the climate here is so wet, he's taking ages to heal, he's weak and tired all the time, problems are bigger when he can't just shoot his way into a solution... but he can smell the heat of that pool from here, and he can't wait to duck beneath the surface.
He looks around for anyone else in sight, but the place is empty of people, and so he's already reaching for the zipper on his jacket as he turns to Vash with a laugh: “We can just get in, right?”
Wildcard:
Got another idea? Hit me up on
no subject
A fist hits the side of Raju's face hard before they even land and he grunts at the impact, grimaces, but doesn't let go; however they land, whether he gets the leverage to hold the stranger by his arm or not, Raju's instinctive reaction to the pain is to try and hold on tighter.
no subject
But the snow's softer than he expected, and deeper. The ground's not where he thought it would be, and when he lands, he lands in the snowbank, ice up past his ears and caking instantly in his hair.
Shit.
He doesn't let the confusion stall him out for long, though. If he can't twist Raju off, then he'll slam him off; Wolfwood's shoulders sink into the snowdrift and he's curling up the next instant, aiming to headbutt Raju right in the face where that previous fist connected.
no subject
Throwing himself forward makes trying to lever that joint further than it was meant to go easier; Raju tries to slam his head right back into the stranger's, making a sharp noise as he feels the pain of it running through him again, trying to aim for the nose.
no subject
There's a crunch when Raju's head connects, but it's only the dull crunch of cartilage and not, thankfully, the hard snap of bone. It still hurts plenty, though! Snarling curses, Wolfwood twists beneath Raju, bending one leg up with surprising flexibility, intending to jam that foot into Raju's gut and send him flying.
no subject
His shoes can't be trusted on the snow, not for long, so as soon as he thinks he can make the distance he launches himself off the ground, leaning his head away to lead with his shoulder, wanting to plow it into whatever part of the stranger he can reach this way, and maybe try to get a grip around a wrist, if he's lucky.
no subject
But he's weaker since he came here. His punches don't have the same bone-cracking strength, his throws don't get nearly the distance they used to, and all those years of training no longer apply to the way his body currently performs. The pain from his bloodied nose has him grinning ferociously as Raju comes in with that shoulder, and Wolfwood figures he'll grab the man's coat at the back and fling him off again, using Raju's own momentum to send him flying. But it's a lot harder to throw a grown man with an ordinary human's strength, even a big, broad human's strength, and so that grab-and-fling probably just sends them both to the ground again.
This is getting old! Why can't he just knock this guy out and be done with it?!
no subject
That’s going to be a problem once the fight ends, the cold and the wet clothes, but Raju isn’t about to end this early just because of that. And now, if things were different, is when he might say so — but the stranger isn’t doing this to be friendly, and as an adult Raju isn’t used to teasing during a fight with anyone but Akhtar. So the Keep throwing me all you like, I’ll just keep coming back shows in Raju’s grin instead and in action, in the way he just launches himself at the stranger again, whichever part of him makes for the closest, largest target.
no subject
Wolfwood managed to keep his footing after that last failed throw, but only just -- even these new boots with their sturdy tread aren't really designed for fighting in snow and ice; his feet keep slipping, and it's different enough to the way sand moves that he's not quite adapted yet. He'll get there, but for now any brute force action sends his feet sliding back, his arms pinwheeling to keep him off the ground.
All that effort's for nothing, though, when Raju just launches himself at Wolfwood again and they both go down again. He's getting real tired of having snow down the back of his coat. But that's fine -- iif standing is proving troublesome, he'll just stay right where he is and keep the fight in close.
He tries for an elbow to Raju's shoulder or back as they're heading for the ground, and once there he brings both fists up for a barrage of punches, with the intent of overwhelming the other man and driving him back. He's still not going for any permanent harm -- those punches are aimed at the sides of Raju's head, at his jaw, and cheek.
Above them, the wind shifts, treetops groaning as they're pushed in a new direction. The tree that Wolfwood chopped halfway through groans with them, leaning so far that the stuck ax falls right out of the trunk onto the ground. Wolfwood doesn't notice -- his focus is on Raju.
no subject
"Move!" he says, wrapping his legs around whatever part of the stranger he can manage to and trying to twist around, wanting to roll the both of them away. "Stop hitting me and move!"
no subject
It's not going to work, though. Wolfwood tries to hold Raju still, but they're pretty equally matched in strength, and he finds himself starting to fall to the side. To avoid being pinned under the other man, Wolfwood releases his hold on Raju and flings himself back, away from Raju. He's just gathering himself to leap forward and attack the other man again when he notices the tree.
"Oh, shit!"
With a snap like a rifle fire, the tree gives way to gravity, trunk exploding into splinters as it falls, right where Raju and Wolfwood had been fighting. Wolfwood's close enough that a branch catches him, and he falls hard into the snow, coughing against the impact. That'll be a nasty bruise later, but a bruise is nothing... not when it could have been much worse.
"Oi, asshole, you still alive?"
no subject
"I'll have this headache for the rest of the day," he answers, cheerfully. Between the pair of them ramming their heads into the other's and those punches right before the tree fell, that's almost certain. It's the kind of thing you earn after something like that. Raju finds he doesn't mind. "That was a fight."
He makes a satisfied noise and sits up, realising he should probably ask the same and craning his neck to try and see over the remains of the tree to where the stranger had fallen. "And you? It didn't get you too badly?"
no subject
I’ll have this headache for the rest of the day! calls the asshole, and Wolfwood breathes out slow with relief. There aren’t nearly enough of them here to wish for the death of any one of their number, especially not just for being stupid.
And this guy is stupid. He sounds positively delighted to have had his face pummeled into jelly. “Dunno if I’m gonna answer that,” he calls in response, slowly lifting himself out of the snow and testing for any additional damage on the way up. It just feels like aches and bruises, plus his nose – which is already starting to swell. Nothing serious, then. Nothing permanent.
“You get off on other people’s injuries too, or just your own?”
Because come on, who sounds that happy about getting punched?
no subject
"You get into as many fights as you do, and you don't enjoy it?" he asks as he carefully considers the soles of his shoes, the little nails stuck into their heel, decides he does have the traction to try and stand up this way and pushes himself to his feet. "That's much more strange."
And if the stranger tells Raju that he doesn't get into fights very often at all, Raju won't believe him. Not because of the ease with which he fights, not because of his obvious skill, but because Raju's met the man, spoken to him for five minutes. Someone like Raju, already in the mood to pick at the first man to offer him a cross word, coming across him can't be that unusual that it hasn't happened.
He glances up through the canopy, a reflexive, habitual try at seeing real sun and sky. Weak, watered down sunlight, sky hidden behind white and layers of clouds. Of course. Of course it would always be that way, here. But his head pounds and his bruises ache, and it's easier now to shift his focus from the way it feels looking up again at that to the other man instead. Raju is curious, watches him with curiosity behind his expression's faint cheer. It'll be interesting to see if he can avoid stirring up that temper again now that he's not actively trying to.
no subject
Still doesn’t mean he enjoyed it, though. “What’s to enjoy? You almost broke my nose, dickhead.” He’s not going anywhere near Raju, if he can possibly avoid it. He’s got an ax to find, after all, somewhere in the snow and splinters at the base of the fallen tree. “Next time, how about you pick a fight with that freak in the mask, leave us honest assholes alone.”
no subject
Nose examined, his fingers move on to his other bruises, prodding them in an almost fascinated kind of way. Usually when he’s bruised, he wasn’t paying any attention to the how. In the last few months there had been Akhtar, who’d been more worth paying attention to than anything, and before that bruises and injuries and anything else hadn’t mattered against what he’d been getting them for. But these are the first bruises Raju’s earned in this frozen, hatefully still place and it feels like he should savour them. If this man wasn’t enjoying himself, after all, he probably wouldn’t want to do it again.
“I wasn’t trying to bait you into a fight, anyway.” Raju may as well clear the air there. Not that he expects it to make much difference to this man, Raju was still trying to make him angry and it did still work, even if not in the way that he’d expected. “Not a physical one. I really did mean to make that fire.”
no subject
The blade seems to have survived its adventure, and Wolfwood nods with relief as he tucks the handle back into his belt. That’s enough tree cutting for now – he’ll come back later to harvest the one he’s felled, but he’s going to wait until this jerk’s nowhere in the area before starting that. He turns, then, only now seeing Raju on top of the log, and his scowl deepens. “I dunno where you’re from, pal,” he drawls, folding his arms over his chest and pointedly not examining his own bruised and bloody face. “But if you’d tried this nonsense back on my world, you’d have been fed a bullet or three for your trouble.”
Not a physical one, anyway. So he’d just been interested in an argument? What a weird guy!
no subject
Put where I come from in its place. That will do. Raju puts the detail away. Think what it says about the stranger instead: what he’s said, how he’d reacted, and something Raju has already been wondering. “How do you get through the day, then, with that temper of yours?”
On the heels of the question he lifts his hands palm-out, a plea for patience. “I’m really asking. Where I come from, that kind of thing wouldn’t have done you any favours either.”
That even applies to the officer’s sons laughing at their parties, in their way. The consequences are different, but they exist. There are rules. So long as Raju plays by those rules in the right way, even the Englishmen have to, too, at least some of the time. Temper is lack of control, and lack of control is weakness, and weakness is an invitation, like shedding blood in an ocean full of sharks. That much must be true, in one way or another, no matter where any man is from.
no subject
“Is that why you’re so comfortable pickin’ at people? You don’t expect ‘em to do anything about it?”
Maybe that would explain why Raju was so delighted to get into a fist fight? Maybe folks don’t respond to obvious baiting with thrown punches where he’s from? Or maybe he’s from one of those posh and proper kinds of places, where most everybody thinks themselves above personal violence so they call the cops to be violent for them?
Not for the first time, Wolfwood finds himself wishing desperately that he could leave this damned little town. He’s been on the move his entire adult life, and being stuck with the same small group of people in the same small space just feels too much like prison for his tastes. He’s not used to having to make nice with folks like Raju here, and it’s really starting to grate on him.
“This temper of mine’s kept me alive, so remember that next time you think about tryin’ to start something.”
no subject
Whatever it is, Raju doesn't see it in him now. It's a shame. Ah, well.
He considers. Without whatever it is that's missing from the stranger's anger, there's not too much chance they'll try that other contest again, either. So he won't lose anything from giving a little help:
"You never could have started a fire only with that, by the way," he says, hopping off the remains of the tree and gesturing at it. "Too much water in it when it's still alive. We used to let it dry for a while at home, for..." He'd been a child, and not particularly paying attention. He doesn't remember. "Months, at least. You'll have to start a fire with dry wood first, and add the green wood after."
And then there's the smoke the greener wood makes— but, polite and restrained as the stranger's been, Raju doesn't mind letting him discover that part for himself.
"You can see the difference in the wood that I brought earlier, if you can find where you kicked it to." Raju isn't teasing, at least not with his tone. His tone is very matter of fact, he could have looked more easily if he'd left Raju's firewood alone, but Raju knows the comment is pushing the stranger's very thin supply of patience anyway. So he raises a hand in a half-wave and turns away, ready to leave for the Community Hall and something warm. "Good luck."
no subject
He flips Raju's back off as the man walks away, though. There's a limit to how far his patience can be stretched.