[His strides are long, but he falls in step beside her as they walk. The streets are still slicked crimson—he can only imagine the clean-up work that’s to follow all of this—but she’s right: the sun is nice.
Herlock hums in agreement, sticking a hand in a pocket. His fingers fiddle with whatever tidbits he’s collected and forgotten about — coins, scribbles notes, maybe a plastic figurine kept from a gacha capsule.]
Anything is better than all that blasted blood. My clothes are nigh ruined because of it.
no subject
Herlock hums in agreement, sticking a hand in a pocket. His fingers fiddle with whatever tidbits he’s collected and forgotten about — coins, scribbles notes, maybe a plastic figurine kept from a gacha capsule.]
Anything is better than all that blasted blood. My clothes are nigh ruined because of it.