(OOC: I can't help but love this dumpster fire. Sorry, Lydia, you're chained to the absolute worst guy to play a game of Sardines with, or try to quietly escape a madman in a hedge maze.)
[He's built for physicality and intimidation, and everything from the way he dresses to the manner in which he conducts himself is a reflection of what he knows. It's really not that difficult, when the wondering is a weapon unto itself. Combine the man's stature with his preferred language, and people have either been picking fights to prove their own worth or cutting him a wide berth for most of his life. It used to upset him, until he learned to make it work for him. Until the first time Grady held someone at the edge of his knife then turned to Wrench and started lamenting his high score in fucking Galaga. Cutting wide arcs through the air with the blade of his knife to imitate the path of his ship, and imitating shooting. The fool hadn't known the difference. What's more, he'd thought Wrench had saved him.
People assume a lot of stupid shit, in the absence of answers. And the burly, silent man makes a good place for any willing party to project their thoughts onto. Wrench is used to the worst of them, but he's learned to work that to his advantage. Except there's nothing advantageous about being bound by an unbreakable chain to a stranger whose intentions he hasn't quite figured out. When she walks he walks, and he's glad enough it's that easy for now. At least he thinks so, and so he pays no mind to the heaviness of his boot-clad footfalls, the weight of his breath, or the clacking chain between them.
He pays so little attention, in fact, that he doesn't stop when his compatriot does, and her anchored body causes him to give her a firmer tug. Wrench throws up his hands -- more rattling chain sounds -- and turns to her. "What?" his expression seems to ask, shoulders shrugged, palms open and expectant.
Several yards off a bird flies from a tangle of branches, dropping needles with its hasty retreat. The motion catches Wrench's eye and he yanks the length of the chain to reel the young woman behind him.]
no subject
[He's built for physicality and intimidation, and everything from the way he dresses to the manner in which he conducts himself is a reflection of what he knows. It's really not that difficult, when the wondering is a weapon unto itself. Combine the man's stature with his preferred language, and people have either been picking fights to prove their own worth or cutting him a wide berth for most of his life. It used to upset him, until he learned to make it work for him. Until the first time Grady held someone at the edge of his knife then turned to Wrench and started lamenting his high score in fucking Galaga. Cutting wide arcs through the air with the blade of his knife to imitate the path of his ship, and imitating shooting. The fool hadn't known the difference. What's more, he'd thought Wrench had saved him.
People assume a lot of stupid shit, in the absence of answers. And the burly, silent man makes a good place for any willing party to project their thoughts onto. Wrench is used to the worst of them, but he's learned to work that to his advantage. Except there's nothing advantageous about being bound by an unbreakable chain to a stranger whose intentions he hasn't quite figured out. When she walks he walks, and he's glad enough it's that easy for now. At least he thinks so, and so he pays no mind to the heaviness of his boot-clad footfalls, the weight of his breath, or the clacking chain between them.
He pays so little attention, in fact, that he doesn't stop when his compatriot does, and her anchored body causes him to give her a firmer tug. Wrench throws up his hands -- more rattling chain sounds -- and turns to her. "What?" his expression seems to ask, shoulders shrugged, palms open and expectant.
Several yards off a bird flies from a tangle of branches, dropping needles with its hasty retreat. The motion catches Wrench's eye and he yanks the length of the chain to reel the young woman behind him.]