If any of the things had moved on him he'd have fought back without taking too long to think about exactly what it was he was looking at. As it is they don't, and he doesn't, and he spends a couple minutes shoulder deep in that too-familiar out at sea feeling, stranded in the middle of the ocean with no tide to carry you. After he'd headed out from Par Vollen for what turned out to be the last time he'd heard sailors talking about it, being stranded out there with no wind and no way to move, nothing to look at but water, nothing to do but wait to get carried somewhere else or die. He's pretty good with Common these days, but he can't remember the word. Never been out at sea for longer than maybe three different trips each spaced years apart, and for every one of them he'd had things other than sailing on his mind. But he thinks he could probably understand what it feels like.
His mind doesn't understand what's in front of him. 'Meatbag' hits him like a clue, but like any of the million others that hit him each day on that shitting train in the middle of the shitting Fade, it's a clue to a puzzle put together by a madman, you can feel the solution there but it's only going to make sense once it's too late. Not big enough for a golem, which says demon, and the hooded ones are moving says demon, but here inside the Fade, on the other side of it, things aren't always what they should be.
He won't need to know what they are once the fighting starts. Most things stop getting in your way once enough of their limbs come off.
By the time a sure, familiar voice stops things the Bull's taking harsh breaths in through his nose, stance set, knees bent, arms a little away from his body and fingers curled, ready to grab whatever's stupid enough to come at him first.
He jerks back, reflexive, before he realises the knife went into one of the other guys, follows its path back to-- Oh. Even on the other side of the Fade body language seems like it's the same though, and it's almost a relief to read it, to know that what he's supposed to do right now is to stay quiet. So he stays quiet. He looks over the familiar face, the unfamiliar bearing, the glint of metal inside the coat. Knife in the wrist of someone who's supposed to follow his orders-- don't know what kind of healing's available here, don't know that much about Aden or where he's from, don't know enough to put it into context. Remember it, anyway.
He looks from Aden to the other-- the other whatever they ares, demons or mages or something else, and falls into step behind Aden the moment Aden starts moving as if the Bull belongs there, waiting until they're probably alone to murmur, "'Command', huh?" in a dry, ironic tone. Not exactly what the Bull was imagining, when he'd asked the guy the last time they'd talked. Then again, he's realising, he's not all that good at imagining much. Not any more, anyway.
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His mind doesn't understand what's in front of him. 'Meatbag' hits him like a clue, but like any of the million others that hit him each day on that shitting train in the middle of the shitting Fade, it's a clue to a puzzle put together by a madman, you can feel the solution there but it's only going to make sense once it's too late. Not big enough for a golem, which says demon, and the hooded ones are moving says demon, but here inside the Fade, on the other side of it, things aren't always what they should be.
He won't need to know what they are once the fighting starts. Most things stop getting in your way once enough of their limbs come off.
By the time a sure, familiar voice stops things the Bull's taking harsh breaths in through his nose, stance set, knees bent, arms a little away from his body and fingers curled, ready to grab whatever's stupid enough to come at him first.
He jerks back, reflexive, before he realises the knife went into one of the other guys, follows its path back to-- Oh. Even on the other side of the Fade body language seems like it's the same though, and it's almost a relief to read it, to know that what he's supposed to do right now is to stay quiet. So he stays quiet. He looks over the familiar face, the unfamiliar bearing, the glint of metal inside the coat. Knife in the wrist of someone who's supposed to follow his orders-- don't know what kind of healing's available here, don't know that much about Aden or where he's from, don't know enough to put it into context. Remember it, anyway.
He looks from Aden to the other-- the other whatever they ares, demons or mages or something else, and falls into step behind Aden the moment Aden starts moving as if the Bull belongs there, waiting until they're probably alone to murmur, "'Command', huh?" in a dry, ironic tone. Not exactly what the Bull was imagining, when he'd asked the guy the last time they'd talked. Then again, he's realising, he's not all that good at imagining much. Not any more, anyway.