[He doesn't expand it either, but he hardly needs to from the embarrassed jesus he mutters under his breath. He swallows it down and pushes at the other topic.]
You think I know jack shit about Carmilla save from half-remembered cultural osmosis? I'm years out of date, Lalonde. Even more out of date than you think when we've got people from years, decades, centuries in the future. The local year is at least 2150, and—
[Rose will hear the squawk and see the ruffle of vibrant orange as he nearly jumps out of his plumage at the sudden door slam. The door she came through is right within viewing distance, and decidedly not the door he came through a little bit ago. He doesn't trust that the door he used is even still there behind him right now.]
[If there were a singular term to describe how he looks (aside from startled all to shit), it's worn down. There's an underslept weariness in his face that creeps past the edges of his sunglasses, a thinness to his cheeks, and one could almost see the weight of stress that's pressed down heavier and heavier on his shoulders. His hair is shaggy with about five months' growth; he has scissors, but hasn't asked anyone to cut it yet. He could use a shower. He could almost always use a shower, rare as they are with hot water here. Some of the seriousness may be undercut by the fact that he's dressed like a homeless clown had a baby with a balloon animal.]
[Carefully, he folds his wings back neat behind him and settles the feathers of his ruff. He's staring saucer-eyed at her, but the dark lenses hide that much, and do pretty well to obscure the scars around the sockets, too. He clears his throat.]
no subject
You think I know jack shit about Carmilla save from half-remembered cultural osmosis? I'm years out of date, Lalonde. Even more out of date than you think when we've got people from years, decades, centuries in the future. The local year is at least 2150, and—
[Rose will hear the squawk and see the ruffle of vibrant orange as he nearly jumps out of his plumage at the sudden door slam. The door she came through is right within viewing distance, and decidedly not the door he came through a little bit ago. He doesn't trust that the door he used is even still there behind him right now.]
[If there were a singular term to describe how he looks (aside from startled all to shit), it's worn down. There's an underslept weariness in his face that creeps past the edges of his sunglasses, a thinness to his cheeks, and one could almost see the weight of stress that's pressed down heavier and heavier on his shoulders. His hair is shaggy with about five months' growth; he has scissors, but hasn't asked anyone to cut it yet. He could use a shower. He could almost always use a shower, rare as they are with hot water here. Some of the seriousness may be undercut by the fact that he's dressed like a homeless clown had a baby with a balloon animal.]
[Carefully, he folds his wings back neat behind him and settles the feathers of his ruff. He's staring saucer-eyed at her, but the dark lenses hide that much, and do pretty well to obscure the scars around the sockets, too. He clears his throat.]
'Sup?