faildestiny·:
UNEASE BLOOMS through his joints, the very ones that ached to help this man but did not wish to be clad in mud, and perhaps let his guard down for what could be a quick ruse to pick his pockets ( a scheme he would know all too well ), so he keeps his respected distance, continuing to adjust his armor and clothing as they situated themselves, the man was gruff and dirty like a farmers palm, troy felt pity swarm in his stomach like flies to scraps. still, a light sheen of pride covered his face as he watched them, the volume increase of their voice only beckoned by troy himself, the distaste in the air between them thick like the mud making friends with their garments.
“perhaps it is only a fool who would blame mother nature for his blundering attention,” he barks back, busying his hands by swiping some dirt from his bottom and clearing his throat as though the words pained him to let out. when a new speck of cold MUD hits his leg from his opposite’s flicked impact, he’s quick to swipe it away, looks at its pigment on his fingers before clenching, lost within his palm, “..do i have the pleasure in knowing what would compel a man to RUSH so feverishly at this hour, so lost in his head that he might take down others in his path?” it feels he is wearing someone else’s shoes, clothes, speaking through someone else’s mouth — he had never been such an angry being as a boy; but it had gone too far to change character now.
Fool. The word hit like a sword - sharp, pointed, and piercing. Upon his anger-red face Arnbjörn’s lip curled with obvious and unhindered distaste. Out of sheer pettiness he flicked his cloak once more, though already depleted of clinging mud it did little but shower down a few watery specks like a damp dog still shaking. Grimacing, he forced himself to full height, and though he stood but a fraction taller than the man before him he still stuck out his chin, looking down his nose at the other. From this position he could see he knew the man not - not his face, nor his clothing were familiar, not even showing relation to any whom Arnbjörn had treated in all his years in Hedeby.
“If you must know, I run to fetch meat and milk for eating, and ale for drinking. My bones are full of wisdom and thus are heavy, my joints have many times moved and thus are weary. But do you not know to trust those who are old, and to pay them respect, stranger?”
