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[ic] i'm outta bullets so fuck it, i use my knife
As they walked the vegetation was thinning, the land rapidly smoothing of its slight dips and curves. They were not far from the ivory canine's destination — even now Kansas could see the ghostly form of the abandoned plane resting on the flat surface of the earth, never to fly again. One of the many things he loved about Crimson Dreams was its sights, diverse and invaluable. He was never bored here, for there seemed always a place he hadn't explored thoroughly enough. Having such valuable scenery was important to the Sadira, for he was often restless (one could only read so much) and experienced urges to poke around somewhere away from the confines of Haven Manor.
The pale-furred boy felt nothing ill of what Conor had said, other than concern toward the younger man's sorrowful tone. He was certainly flattered by the invitation, but his ears fell backward as he cast a wary glance toward his nephew. The war must have torn Dahlia de Mai up more than he realized, because even Conor's sincere description of its beauty seemed tainted by the boy's pain. He wondered if there was sadness in the very land of the war-beaten place, and felt sick as he considered what Crimson Dreams would be like under the same circumstances. If war ever came here, he and his fellow Dreamers would have no place to go to be soothed. Perhaps Conor held memories of his home before the war that were now bloodied, never to be the same. I... I'd love to come visit, was all he could think to say, his turquoise eyes soft.
They had now neared the damaged airplane closely enough to see the dull colors on its wings and flanks. Kansas turned his eyes toward Conor and forced a smile, gesturing toward the craft with a tilt of his head. It's something, huh?
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