[ It's been long enough that he feels like he's entitled to another break--as he stands up, straightening, hands pushed to the small of his back, he can feel the steady ache there from the endless labor of the afternoon, the buster sword on his back just heavy enough that he feels like he's starting to notice. Despite the slight discomfort, he's got the determination to see the rest of it through: with the promise of coin, as well as some flour to take back to the inn, he's starting to think that maybe it'll be a good gift for Aerith. Something she could use, maybe, or that they could barter off for something else.
With a sigh, he rolls his shoulders and shifts on his heels, intending to get back to work. There are a bunch of faces he doesn't recognize, hanging around the windmill, and he wonders if it means that new people have made their way to this place. New criminals, then? Or--something else. Maybe it's not fair to pin everyone with the same judgment.
He doesn't recognize the face that he sees, chatting away with one of the locals, but something in his head stops him in his tracks--he doesn't understand the jolt that runs through him, the sudden bolt of fear and relief, or the crack of the headache that immediately sprints across his thoughts, forcing one of his gloved hands up to clutch at the side of his head. It feels like it might split in two, static that buzzes in his ears, stomach lurching with the urge to be sick; who is this guy? He's dressed like SOLDIER, but--
Wincing, he takes a few steps forward, stops, takes another few, and finally steadies himself despite the crackle of his headache. ]
There's... [ His voice sounds strange--raspy, like he can't control it. Why is there this overwhelming feeling of dread, warring with knee-knocking relief? His eyes stare at the man he doesn't recognize, noting that strangely, his eyes are soaked in that familiar mako-blue. ] ...crates. Over there. For you to carry.
windmill adjacent
With a sigh, he rolls his shoulders and shifts on his heels, intending to get back to work. There are a bunch of faces he doesn't recognize, hanging around the windmill, and he wonders if it means that new people have made their way to this place. New criminals, then? Or--something else. Maybe it's not fair to pin everyone with the same judgment.
He doesn't recognize the face that he sees, chatting away with one of the locals, but something in his head stops him in his tracks--he doesn't understand the jolt that runs through him, the sudden bolt of fear and relief, or the crack of the headache that immediately sprints across his thoughts, forcing one of his gloved hands up to clutch at the side of his head. It feels like it might split in two, static that buzzes in his ears, stomach lurching with the urge to be sick; who is this guy? He's dressed like SOLDIER, but--
Wincing, he takes a few steps forward, stops, takes another few, and finally steadies himself despite the crackle of his headache. ]
There's... [ His voice sounds strange--raspy, like he can't control it. Why is there this overwhelming feeling of dread, warring with knee-knocking relief? His eyes stare at the man he doesn't recognize, noting that strangely, his eyes are soaked in that familiar mako-blue. ] ...crates. Over there. For you to carry.