[He's proud. More than that: euphoric. Granted his body here might not be built for hunting as it was back—
No, not home, is what catches him in the segue of withdrawing that fine knife from Fenris' thrumming pulse. Calling Toril home asserts that Cazador was home. That misery was home. That his folly and failures all were tantamount to where he belongs, and whether or not that's true, for the first time in two long centuries he has a choice.
And what he chooses, offering one last playful nudge to the shadow lurking underneath Fenris' throat with a loosely held pommel (sinking back across his shoulders, and forgetting that his heels feel dry and ragged in the dust; that specks of debris and broken rock bite back into soft muscle right through silk), is that his home is what he sees before him.
Everything else had been a waiting room. Nothing more.]
You say that now, but I should remind you it takes a shocking amount of confidence not to leap to the aid of something pretty and wounded. [Implication clear, it wears a muted flourish of splayed fingertips— a facsimilie of a bow, though it lacks the key component when he's laying down like this— black leather shining in the moonlight.
(Honestly, if he wasn't drunk enough to slack his posture wildly to one side, it might be downright bewitching in effect; sleek lines and rustled hems. Dangerous white fangs jutting from his curling lips, offset by wine-flush, and the far more vivid crimson left scandalously hooded just to spite its focus.
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No, not home, is what catches him in the segue of withdrawing that fine knife from Fenris' thrumming pulse. Calling Toril home asserts that Cazador was home. That misery was home. That his folly and failures all were tantamount to where he belongs, and whether or not that's true, for the first time in two long centuries he has a choice.
And what he chooses, offering one last playful nudge to the shadow lurking underneath Fenris' throat with a loosely held pommel (sinking back across his shoulders, and forgetting that his heels feel dry and ragged in the dust; that specks of debris and broken rock bite back into soft muscle right through silk), is that his home is what he sees before him.
Everything else had been a waiting room. Nothing more.]
You say that now, but I should remind you it takes a shocking amount of confidence not to leap to the aid of something pretty and wounded. [Implication clear, it wears a muted flourish of splayed fingertips— a facsimilie of a bow, though it lacks the key component when he's laying down like this— black leather shining in the moonlight.
(Honestly, if he wasn't drunk enough to slack his posture wildly to one side, it might be downright bewitching in effect; sleek lines and rustled hems. Dangerous white fangs jutting from his curling lips, offset by wine-flush, and the far more vivid crimson left scandalously hooded just to spite its focus.
As things are, he just looks a touch absurd.)]
But I'll take my payment starting with positions first.