Not a remnant of the squad that Volke been assigned to, but perhaps one from the operatives Superior had taken issue with. A late arrival, due to laze or unavoidable circumstances, though Volke was not sure of which despite the lack of purpose in the man’s stride.
Much else was impossible to tell from this distance.
Air rushed past his ears, the impact of the floor surging through the balls of his feet, up his legs and beyond his knees as Volke let the momentum take reign of his descent. His bloodied thigh ached, the exhaustion of his limbs worse, but he was not so defective as to draw attention to either. Instead he remained there on a knee, gaze no higher than the new arrival’s chest in case this happened to be a superior.
The man was slim and not so tall in stature, but size so rarely gave evidence of those that reigned above.
In expectation that this was an operative, if not a superior, Volke remained where he’d landed, some strides from the maybe-superior. Close enough to be of service, or to lunge and incapacitate that firearm should the man prove to be a hostile.
Though if this was an operative then Volke would surely know punishment, the remnants of his dark gear still wrecked in wake of the conflict hours before. He was even maskless, that unfortunate fact sure to cause offence.
The sound of fabric rustling makes Hachuling grip the switchblade tighter, thumb feathering the spring release. He’s almost as good with knives as he is with swords, but he'd rather not fight if he could avoid it. He came here for information and materials, not a fight.
The only tell of his brief surprise is the quick flicking of his eyes to the side and the minute tensing of his shoulders. The man is unrecognizable, so either he’s a mercenary that’s never had contact with Wolhaiksong - possible, and rather likely, the more he thinks about it - or, he’s HYDRA, and that’s probably even worse, if he’s an assassin. Hachuling’s met his fair share of assassins, but that was more than he wanted to deal with right now.
He keeps his eyes on the newcomer, silently assessing the other. Whoever thought to get him a dark outfit was smart - it took him a bit to recognize familiar spots of blood on the man’s thigh. So he’s injured - and has something close to a weakness. Good enough for him.
The man hasn’t attacked him yet, so either he’s waiting for an optimal moment, or he’s honestly not going to fight him. The risk is worth it - he has a dagger on his arm, and a gun on his thigh, so he forces himself to let go of the knife and slowly raise both his hands in the air, palms facing the stranger. He keeps his stance intentionally neutral though his feet shift slightly to give him better grounding and balance in case the man decides to attack.
“I don’t want to fight.”
True - he doesn’t, but what a lame way to say it.
“Who are you? This place is supposed to be abandoned.”
Which is, really, why he even came.
gamechangershow
titsay
stormborns
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
romaincrisis
