Magenta nearly stops dead when the other shows a bit of interest in what he was speaking about. He wasn’t told to be quiet, which made a quiet part of him sing in relief.
A smile graces his face as he settles back fully on the sled, hands tucked into his coat to fend off the cold. It never got so cold back where he was born; this was awful.
“I always buy my own gear. The sled, my guns, my ammunition. I don’t trust people to buy the best for me.” He tips his head to the side, hat sliding askew until he rights himself once more. “I need a new gun. Joestar damaged mine in our scuffle.” The latter statement was mostly to himself, though he spoke aloud.
“Oi, can we stop at the nearest gunsmith? Once we get out of here.” He peers at the snow around them a bit disdainfully. “Surely we’ll have to stop for supplies. There’s not enough food for the two of us in these bags.”
As long as he didn’t sing-- then things would be fine.
He was used to cold, but less of the snow variety, and more of the dismal, dreary, cold and smoky rain variety. He was also used to more fog, which the lack of was pleasant, despite the blizzard that seemed to be threatening to come and bite at them at any moment. So far every bit of America he has seen has been utterly disgusting; this was no different. He’d rather talk (and act interested) than look at the lack of scenery. “That’s a smart idea.” You couldn’t trust anyone, not really, especially for the best results. For mediocre jobs, sure, but even then; he thinks of Sandman and suppresses a snort of amusement. It, unfortunately, comes out as a sneeze.
He takes a moment to contemplate his reply, Silver Bullet slowing his pace a bit as the blond leans back. He stretches his arms up, shakes snow off his shoulders, and sneezes again; he was going to get a nose bleed from this dry weather. “The next rest spot is about a day away. I don’t know when we’ll find a gunsmith though...” He doesn’t remember seeing anything about one in the general area-- not that it had bothered him. He turns in his seat, lifts a hand, and points generally at his sack. “There’s a map with information in there-- somewhere. There’s enough food for Silver Bullet until then, and for us--”
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