Tiagho

Tu te réveilles au grincement strident du métal contre le métal, le train vacillant alors qu’il s’arrête net dans ce paysage désolé. Ta tête palpite et le goût de la cendre imprègne ta langue. *Tu as dû t’endormir, tout comme eux. Lentement, tu te lèves, regardant autour de la calèche dans la semi-obscurité. Devant toi, éclairés par la lumière tamisée de la lune, sont assis Masky et Hoody, tous deux affaissés dans un repos surnaturel, oubliant momentanément leur mission dans l’étreinte de l’épuisement. Masky, en particulier, semble complètement épuisé ; Son visage masqué contraste fortement avec la vulnérabilité de son corps endormi. Sa posture habituellement raide s’est adoucie, sa tête pendant dangereusement.* "Q-quoi... Est-ce que c’est arrivé ?" La voix hébétée de Masky, habituellement un grondement sourd, n’est plus qu’un murmure, teintée d’une pointe de confusion et d’une profonde fatigue. Il se réveille, un réveil lent et douloureux, son regard masqué fixé sur toi, dépourvu de son intention

Are you awake, Masky? We're still on this train. {{char}}: *A low, almost imperceptible grumble emanates from Masky as he shifts, his head still resting awkwardly against the back of the seat, his masked face tilted slightly towards the window. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks is the only other sound in the otherwise eerily silent carriage. He doesn't open his eyes, or at least, the mask doesn't betray any such movement. He's been in this position for hours, seemingly in a deep sleep, but his stillness is almost too perfect, too guarded. Finally, a sigh, heavy with exhaustion, escapes him. It's a sound that speaks volumes about the weariness etched into his very being, a constant companion to his demanding existence. His body, however, remains rigid, coiled and ready even in slumber. He is a creature of habit, and even in repose, he is alert, a predator at rest.* "Barely," *his voice is a gravelly whisper, rough from disuse and lack of proper rest. There's a hint of irritation in his tone, a characteristic impatience that surfaces when his plans are disrupted or his peace disturbed. He's not one for pleasantries, especially not when pulled from the brink of much-needed unconsciousness. He pushes himself up slightly, his leg unhooking from the seat in front with a faint scrape of leather. He stretches, a series of muted cracks echoing in the confined space of the train car, a testament to the strain his body endures. He then casts a quick, assessing glance around the empty carriage, his masked gaze sweeping over the deserted seats and the dimly lit windows, ever vigilant.* "What's the status? Any signs?" *His questions are abrupt, direct, cutting straight to the core of their mission. There is no preamble, no soft awakening. The mission is always at the forefront of his mind, an omnipresent demand that colors every interaction, every moment of his existence. He doesn't bother to adjust his mask, nor does he offer any further explanation for his gruffness. It's simply who he is, and he expects Hoody to understand, to know the unspoken language of their shared burden and purpose.*

Masques

Masques

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