like a wounded animal

POSTED: Tue Jan 15, 2019 3:35 pm

the highlands are not a suitable place for sleeping

<- Oh, for the sake of all those spirits. ->

The tone was an exasperated one, in a tongue not common amidst the ship, and the foreigner ran fingers against his face at what he had found in the hull, hidden, yet not so much, amidst the crates in half-dazed stupor; Griffin was strewn out, an empty wine skin hanging out of reach, murmuring softly to himself.

"Griffin," the name sounded odd-framed, too clunky, against his teeth, and Tsolin stooped somewhat, snapping fingers in front of the, to his experience, surly (if not outright insecure) man, gauging a response which came sluggishly to him. Dark lips pulled into a tight line when oil-slick eyes rolled to him in their hazy hazel, and the Mongolian mongrel sighed. Without a word he hooked his arms around the sailor's middle.

<- Look at you, drunk and sad, eyes like some woeful reindeer fawn, -> his low tenor rumbled whilst winter ocean breeze carried his foreigner's lilt away, taking it up in the brine, the salt. Griffin was slumped down against a railing, where the Mongolian man stooped again. "Wake up, foolish man, what has you feeling bad?"

There was a groan, and Tsolin's copper fingers skimmed through a chilly puddle on deck, flicking the water onto that face.

"Answer me."

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POSTED: Tue Jan 15, 2019 10:50 pm

god tsolin!!!

Tia had gone some time ago. It could have been hours or days or weeks - he didn't care. He didn't want to care about anything. He wanted numbness and he wanted relief, but he didn't want to die. Maybe if he had been the sort of person who had the guts for dying, someone would have loved him. When he met the devil, did he unwittingly trade love for longevity?

The thoughts rolled and roiled around like unfastened cargo in the unsteady dip of his head. Sleep would come soon, and then a terrible headache, but he didn't have to worry about that now.

An ear-splitting sound ground out the syllables of his name. He tried to lift his head and swat away the popping clicks in front of his face. Then his whole world tipped over.

If Mateo was his rival in love, then Tsolin was his rival in everything else. No one made him feel more inadequate than Tsolin, who was by all accounts the picture of noble masculinity. He was a man of few words and great courage, handsome and strong and never seemed to do wrong - the exact opposite of Griffin, really.

Whatever he said to him, maybe it was the grog, maybe it was just his intuition, but he knew it was condescending and probably really clever.

Yerr...big...muscle! he slurred between limp attempts at pushing him away. Not only was it pitiful to have Tsolin of all people taking care of him, but the stupid man was ruining his chances at a menage-a-trois with his favorite lesbians. It wasn't sound logic, but it was his logic.

He knew they were outside because the chill wind pricked at his lean frame. His head lolled with the weight of resignation - so this was it then. Tsolin was going to throw him out like rotten fish, and he'd sink to the bottom - this made him spit a laugh. How funny! He was at rock bottom already! And so soon, it happened again so soon.

Some feeling returned to his fingers, and he rubbed the water from his face.

My heart, he muttered. Stupid Tsolin. Woke him up, and now it all hurt again, and worse. You wouldn't know.

POSTED: Tue Jan 22, 2019 11:36 pm

the highlands are not a suitable place for sleeping

For a long, drawling moment, he had tried to wonder over the meaning of grog-slurred words that rolled around on Griffin's slippery tongue. He deduced, after too long, he thought, that they meant nothing - he was speaking nonsense. A cross look etched through his brow and he wished that his remaining friends here would at least show him the vague decency of speaking plainly to him.

Fingers instead rose to that doggish face, and he rubbed them sluggishly against his face, and he complained of his heart - was he ill? Was he dying?

A closer examination, the forward prick of his ears told him otherwise - lovesickness was not something so readily fixed. "Try me," he answered instead, letting that dark nose twitch a little, almost indignant. With a huff, he gently patted Grififn's cheek, now that he was awake, and at least semi-lucid.

"You think on it too much. Come." Hands gripped at those shoulders again, and tried to prop the sloshed sailor onto his feet, only to catch him as he staggered, letting his palms hover just in case. "What do sailors do to have fun? In town, they sing songs. Do you need a song, Grififn?"

The calloused gruffness in his words was off-set by sincerity while he fixed the other man's clothes. "Drink?"

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