Someone once told him that you couldn't find the heart in the eyes' of a fiend, but Fallon might've said the opposite of Lucas. As insufferable and petty as the spear-wielder was; his heart was simply too large, and too frivolous. Not only that, he enjoyed mocking him at every turn. Fallon's telltale scowl was scrawled across his hawkish features, revealing only a displeased exasperation. Cigarettes, to him, was a filthy, disgusting habit reserved for rich, pompous men and salacious women who enjoyed suckling away at something—... though, he'd found a relative nonchalance when smelling the vile substance. Thankfully, he wasn't a Senser specializing in redolent stenches. His long tapered fingers tapped, tapped, tapped across his steel arm-guards. Unimpressed by the group in question, not entirely unlike Ezekiel. That was, until Lucas' final gibe and Fallon's rankled repercussion. He wanted to wipe that glib expression of his face. Snatching his fingers around the spear's wooden shaft, Fallon pushed it towards the ground and harshly released him. Now, unfortunately, Lucas hadn't fallen into the dust, but he was still satisfied when he pitched forward, hopping onto one foot; much like a bristling hen, less like a squalling rooster.
Nearly toppling into Gray, whom seemed focused in whatever conversation he was having with Snow, but not quite reaching the scarred Redeemer. Fallon wouldn't have cared either way. The assailing arm crossed back over his chest, and a strangely out-of-place smirk curled across his lips. As pleased as a kitten whose belly had been rubbed. Golden-myrtle eyes probed into Lucas' back whilst he slammed the butt of his measly spear into the dusky terrain to halt plummeting into Gray, findings winding tight around the spear's center mass. Had their positions been reversed, Fallon knew he wouldn't have taken it so well. He had to commend him on that, anyway. Deliberatly raising a shapely brow, the Elves' head cocked lightly to the side as Lucas' rounded on him, shooting him pouty glares. Then, Lucas' expression melted into it's usual swag; shoulders slumping forward, and shadows playing across his downturned features. Had he inflicted any actual damage?
Unlikely. His droning voice was languidly slow, full of unnecessary climactic pauses, and enunciated words that grated across Fallon's spine. And his last nerves. Not that it wasn't particularly difficult to set his teeth grinding. He couldn't even
hear Lucas' voice, couldn't hear the lilting drawl that he imagined. But, it was the way that his lips moved, so casually, so precise, that gave him pause. Fallon's ability to read people's lips, as well as their body language, was the deciding factor in whom he liked, or found ceaselessly bothersome. Suddenly, Lucas was including Lilith into this ridiculous conversation and he inadvertently craned his neck forward, mouth curled back into it's derisive frown. All previous attempts at haughtiness were gone. His victory was small, and all for naught. Wearing a coy smile with feigned undertones of concern, Lucas' leaned over the oriental Redeemer and whispered... quite clearly, everything that made him want to wring the damned Senser's neck.
A dark eyebrow arched high up under it's shade of silvery white hair, then narrowed sharply. Fallon fumed, impulsively taking a few aggressive steps toward him. He managed to keep his voice level and calm although his usual velvety notes were slightly strained, “How haven't you been killed yet?” Then, just like that, Lucas' transformed into a proper gentleman; smoothing his shirt like a skirting woman, straightening his galling posture and kissing Lilith's knuckles. Story book prince, indeed. A throaty snort expelled itself from the Elf's throat as he faltered back a few steps, giving them room for whatever foolish pleasantries they wished to conduct. He was two parts disgusted, two parts amused. He spared Lilith a seething glance, though it's anger withered and died without any direction. “By all means, I'm sure he'd love them from you,” He added sharply, eyeing her for another moment. Warmth flooded his chest; he was certain it was a mixture of the sweltering heat, the inappropriate comments and the sweet wines he'd been consuming all afternoon.
Fallon shot Ezekiel a withering glance when he departed their company, not offering him any solace from Lucas' wry comments, nor Lilith's encouraging responses. All of the business with the merchant was dealt with, with the loss of a few coins, and then they were moving once more. Thank the Maker.
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He remained solid and wooden, gaze forecasting a multitude of thoughts, but none that were entirely pleased with himself. He'd lost control, and refused to follow Amaryliss' direct commands, whilst Ezekiel faithfully pranced to her side. Well, there was no
prancing. Certainly, no
swooping. But, something akin to that. Fallon's gauntleted fingers flexed, closed, then opened laxly. He screwed up his eyes, frustrated at his own lack of coherency, his own lack of words. He could not find Vivian's solemn conviction, nor her genuine shame. He could find nothing, at all. Swallowing hard, a tightness was already forming in the pit of his gut.
His brooding thoughts were broken by a sudden stab of sharp pain across his left shoulders, resounding in a rumbling hiss. An old rusty blade was thrust just beneath Fallon's hip, blood seeping from the wound and staining his boiled leathers. A wound he had not noticed whilst fighting the Tainted; perhaps, repentance for his insolence? Clasping the daggers' hilt within his hands, slippery from the carmine substance staining it's entire length, and unsteady from his trembling fingers; Fallon muttered something darkly, in a foreign tongue, before roughly removing the object. Rekindled pain shuddered across his flesh, sending a jolt of pain down his spine and then pulsing into a dull pain. He swore he could feel a separate heartbeat thumping across his hip. Without so much as a reason to say anything, Fallon's gravel voice interjected with Ezekiel's harsh statement. Everything Ezekiel said was harsh. His mouth opened to say something else to Vivian, to add his own apologies... but, for what? He did not know. Instead, Fallon's mouth closed and he simply followed her towards the front.
Silence had always been his companion.
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Day 1.5
Slums of Vincere, Capital of Litas
[Open]
Everything seemed to return to normal. Partly. Fallon's broodiness lingered, while he believed Vivian to be still quite upset about the entire situation, including Lucas' lack of tact. He'd offered Snow a small smile for her kindness, for asserting her medical prowess whereas others' might have simply continued onwards. Amaryliss would always offer her specialties, tending to all of the Redeemer's even if she suffered her own injuries. It was the kind of selfless kindness that turned his stomach. He did not like to see her like this, but could not find any way to make amends. His hands, like most Redeemer's, were made for killing. Not healing. Nor comforting. At least, in this, Ezekiel could relate. His gauntleted fingers twitched, then nearly caught Ezekiel's elbow before he decidedly snapped it back.
Lucas, Gray and Lilith seemed content with distracting themselves. Fallon's lips formed a straight line the scarred Redeemer's arm casually draped across Lilith's slender shoulders. A soft click of his tongue might've sounded, though his face was already turned away. He didn't want to witness any wily charms Gray might have hidden up his sleeves, nor did he want his hackles raised if Lilith so chose to be offended. Even stone-faced broods felt prickly about certain matters. Whenever women were in distress, Fallon immediately resorted to blows. Perhaps, it had something to do with Amaryliss. Women were to be respected, not begrudged, belittled or humiliated with galling comments.
Sparing another glance, Fallon noticed Lucas' shoulders quaking in laughter. He supposed he missed something amusing, and only raised an inquiring eyebrow. And then, there was Vivian. She was still half-naked with strips of her clothes hanging across lithe thighs, tempting curves and a lean stomach. Fallon would've been stupid if he denied noticing. Though not entirely interested in women, or men for that matter, like Lucas was, he wasn't immune to the wiles of the opposite sex. Gauntleted fingers worked at the copper clasps holding his outer layer, undoing them as quickly as he could manage. Unfortunately, his outfit wasn't the most conventional piece in the world. His breastplate detached as soon as he sloughed the outer garment of his shoulders, then he replaced the belt and crimson sash around his bare, gangly waist. He was silent. Even as he swept the jacket across Vivian's shoulders, Fallon chose to say nothing. His intentions were clear enough, weren't they? He needed no explanations, he hoped. Sometimes, he struggled with words. A curt, stiff nod, and Fallon turned on his heels, breastplate tucked under his arm, as he followed Lucas towards the front of the group. Either way, without his weighty leathers; everything would be a lot cooler. The weather was always kinder to bare flesh, used to Vincere's merciless heat.
It wasn't hard to match Lucas' sauntering gate, lengthening his own strides until he walked alongside him. Never too close. Though, he eyed the Senser from his peripherals so that he could make out any words sputtering from those lips. It wouldn't do him any good avoiding Lucas' whilst trying to find the little girl. They weren't a family, entirely. But, they'd have to do a better job at communicating if they hoped to be successful. “You don't even know where your going, do you?” Subtlety at it's best.
