[Are there supposed to be crows in the desert? More importantly, are you supposed to see any inside?
Well, if they're not, this particular crow has not gotten the memo. Listen, the pie might be free, but nothing else is, and a fiscally responsible bird knows better than to owe debts to potentially sketchy people, alright.
...In other words, the bird is stealing your french fries. All's fair in lunch and war.]
ii. gotta poke 'em all
[The feeling of being watched is strange. There's a wrongness to it, like it's all backward. That's supposed to be his role, isn't it? There's an image of an eye in his mind, stylized with feathers and gears, and somehow he knows its his. He's the eyes and ears at the forefront of a war that people shouldn't know about, and not being able to conceal his movements from these eyes would be irritating enough if it didn't come with this bone-deep heaviness, of accusation -- he's a burden, a nuisance, an albatross around everyone's neck. He makes people's lives more difficult at best, the eyes allege in their silence as they stare through him moreso than at.]
Who the hell are you looking at, huh?
[he finally snaps, as a particular teal pair emerge from a wall.]
Mind your own goddamn business.
[They don't go. A fit of pique overtakes him, then, and he just reaches out and pokes them. The satisfaction of watching them melt back into the wall is short-lived, though, as several more take their place. Two sets of silver eyes, this time. Pushing them back in draw out russet brown eyes, then red eyes, like his own. Purple eyes, even.
So it is that anyone walking this particular hallway will find a man aggressively playing whack-eye-mole with a wall and swearing. Anyone that lingers too long or even perhaps decides to approach will get a particularly irritated glower--]
What do you want? I'm busy.
[Poking out possibly hallucinatory eyes in the wall, obviously. Important shit he's got going on here.]
iii. something unfortunate this way comes
[Getting attacked by a bloodthirsty monster while you're minding your own business cheerfully dancing is patently unfair, Qrow thinks. Especially when he somehow knows that fighting barehanded is not the style he's most comfortable with. There's only so much in a diner-slash-improvised nightclub one can use as a weapon, though, and for the most part he's fighting an evasive battle.
Until, that is, he trips over your foot and slams into the nearest table, knocking over both an entire pitcher of beer and a couple of the votive candles for ambiance, which of course immediately ignites the alcohol now all over the floor in a wall of fire, scaring off the chupacabras that had wandered inside.]
Qrow Branwen | RWBY
[Are there supposed to be crows in the desert? More importantly, are you supposed to see any inside?
Well, if they're not, this particular crow has not gotten the memo. Listen, the pie might be free, but nothing else is, and a fiscally responsible bird knows better than to owe debts to potentially sketchy people, alright.
...In other words, the bird is stealing your french fries. All's fair in lunch and war.]
ii. gotta poke 'em all
[The feeling of being watched is strange. There's a wrongness to it, like it's all backward. That's supposed to be his role, isn't it? There's an image of an eye in his mind, stylized with feathers and gears, and somehow he knows its his. He's the eyes and ears at the forefront of a war that people shouldn't know about, and not being able to conceal his movements from these eyes would be irritating enough if it didn't come with this bone-deep heaviness, of accusation -- he's a burden, a nuisance, an albatross around everyone's neck. He makes people's lives more difficult at best, the eyes allege in their silence as they stare through him moreso than at.]
Who the hell are you looking at, huh?
[he finally snaps, as a particular teal pair emerge from a wall.]
Mind your own goddamn business.
[They don't go. A fit of pique overtakes him, then, and he just reaches out and pokes them. The satisfaction of watching them melt back into the wall is short-lived, though, as several more take their place. Two sets of silver eyes, this time. Pushing them back in draw out russet brown eyes, then red eyes, like his own. Purple eyes, even.
So it is that anyone walking this particular hallway will find a man aggressively playing whack-eye-mole with a wall and swearing. Anyone that lingers too long or even perhaps decides to approach will get a particularly irritated glower--]
What do you want? I'm busy.
[Poking out possibly hallucinatory eyes in the wall, obviously. Important shit he's got going on here.]
iii. something unfortunate this way comes
[Getting attacked by a bloodthirsty monster while you're minding your own business cheerfully dancing is patently unfair, Qrow thinks. Especially when he somehow knows that fighting barehanded is not the style he's most comfortable with. There's only so much in a diner-slash-improvised nightclub one can use as a weapon, though, and for the most part he's fighting an evasive battle.
Until, that is, he trips over your foot and slams into the nearest table, knocking over both an entire pitcher of beer and a couple of the votive candles for ambiance, which of course immediately ignites the alcohol now all over the floor in a wall of fire, scaring off the chupacabras that had wandered inside.]
...Well, uh. That was ... lucky?