ofgil:
It’s no wonder that the rogue balks at the gesture. He’d at first thought that maybe– maybe this was just some hoax. Maybe the arm is fake, and the guy’s just playing pranks. But then (stupidly, through morbid curiosity?) he reaches, and just barely touches…
one knuckle. On a dead hand.
Just one touch confirms it to be flesh. REAL flesh. A little gasp catches in his throat and he flinches back, clenching his hand as if it would rid him of the sensation.
❝Who’s–???❞ Holy shit.
He… chooses not to ask that first question, and skips to the next: (It might be unwise to argue with this man)
❝Uh– Heh, wh-why, though? Don’t think I did anything to deserve…❞
He gestures vaguely, most notably at the bracelets ( surely worth its blood money – Its owner may not have been fully moral herself ) but wordlessly, he refers to it all.
Why this? Why me?
Ah. Ah. But he looks scared. He shivers, an innocent gesture of a thin string under the pressing finger of the violinist. { D r a w } the bow? Hear the shriek....?
{ he } smiles. [ he ] hesitates. [ he ] is a t̴̮h̷̩i͏̠̜͓̠̪ͅe̫̫̠f̷̞ but. A __COWARD.||
-.-. --- .-- .- .-. -.. / -.-. --- .-- .- .-. -.. / -.-. --- .-- .- .-. -..
“..... you didn’t t a k e them.” He reminds. He prods. He presses. He. {_Draws_}. A small flick of the limb he holds- the fingers flex in the beautiful oncoming crawl of rigor mortis and bracelets. Jangle. Temptingly.
“Do you not like p r e t t y things, Jack()?”