He doesn't reply at first. A normal, paranoid and handsome Victorian man would probably keep a gun on his person. Those exist and they are useful and he doesn't not own one -- but guns are for human enemies. Not monsters.
So instead he looks away a second time, cursing himself in so many different languages, and grabs a sledgehammer.
You might ask what it's doing outside the toolshed or how the foppiest fop that ever left the house in a shit mood because he chipped a nail opening the door managed to pick it up so easily, but it's really better left unsaid. Despite the way he feels -- he's pissed he's terrified his heart aches for his daughter and the only woman he ever loved -- he keeps his calm expression.
Even that habit comes from somewhere.]
I already knew.
[And he swings, trying to sweep his legs out from under him. Only, you know. It's a sledgehammer, so.]
no subject
He doesn't reply at first. A normal, paranoid and handsome Victorian man would probably keep a gun on his person. Those exist and they are useful and he doesn't not own one -- but guns are for human enemies. Not monsters.
So instead he looks away a second time, cursing himself in so many different languages, and grabs a sledgehammer.
You might ask what it's doing outside the toolshed or how the foppiest fop that ever left the house in a shit mood because he chipped a nail opening the door managed to pick it up so easily, but it's really better left unsaid. Despite the way he feels -- he's pissed he's terrified his heart aches for his daughter and the only woman he ever loved -- he keeps his calm expression.
Even that habit comes from somewhere.]
I already knew.
[And he swings, trying to sweep his legs out from under him. Only, you know. It's a sledgehammer, so.]