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heroyic[ A patchwork of imagery: first, the slope of a nose, flared nostrils. A neat white line of teeth beyond lips drawn into a snarl.
Then, darkness. (His finger pressed to the surface of the locket.)
When the image returns, Roy's face can be seen in its entirety. His cheeks are sunken and glistening with sweat; his hair is tucked behind his ears like a schoolboy. He's laughing in the loose, slow manner brought on by intoxication. There's a faint trail of red from the corner of his mouth (red wine, richer and thicker and sweeter than he'd ever tasted before) that gives him a strange vampiric cast. ]
Who — what sort of tupped-to-hell bastard thought this was a good idea?
[ The laughter catches in his throat, and he coughs, just two heaving shorn-off breaths. A wide sweep of his arm across screen, his loose shirt billowing; he tilts his his head back and takes a long swallow from a nearly-empty decanter of wine. ]
Well, I'm ready. What am I fighting? Who am I fighting? Come and get it — I'm the Bandit, the nastiest of my kind. You'll see me and you won't know what to do with yourself. My mother was Medusa. My father was Hades. My hands are steel blades. I breathe hallowed flame.
[ Another attempted swig of wine, but the decanter is empty. Roy gives it a wounded look, and promptly flings it over his shoulder. It lands in the grass behind him with a soft thump. ]
Don't you want it? My head as a trophy? Come on, you stinkin' worms, come on, I'll fight all of you at once. The Bandit Cripple! The Scourge of the East!
[ Suddenly, the image dips, revealing that he's sitting in the grass before a wheelchair. The right wheel has somehow broken off; he's holding it in his lap, the fingers of his left hand blackened from where he'd been clutching the mud-encrusted rim.
The image jerks back to his face. He's still grinning. ]
Roy Walker's the name. Who's brave enough to come slay a dragon?
Then, darkness. (His finger pressed to the surface of the locket.)
When the image returns, Roy's face can be seen in its entirety. His cheeks are sunken and glistening with sweat; his hair is tucked behind his ears like a schoolboy. He's laughing in the loose, slow manner brought on by intoxication. There's a faint trail of red from the corner of his mouth (red wine, richer and thicker and sweeter than he'd ever tasted before) that gives him a strange vampiric cast. ]
Who — what sort of tupped-to-hell bastard thought this was a good idea?
[ The laughter catches in his throat, and he coughs, just two heaving shorn-off breaths. A wide sweep of his arm across screen, his loose shirt billowing; he tilts his his head back and takes a long swallow from a nearly-empty decanter of wine. ]
Well, I'm ready. What am I fighting? Who am I fighting? Come and get it — I'm the Bandit, the nastiest of my kind. You'll see me and you won't know what to do with yourself. My mother was Medusa. My father was Hades. My hands are steel blades. I breathe hallowed flame.
[ Another attempted swig of wine, but the decanter is empty. Roy gives it a wounded look, and promptly flings it over his shoulder. It lands in the grass behind him with a soft thump. ]
Don't you want it? My head as a trophy? Come on, you stinkin' worms, come on, I'll fight all of you at once. The Bandit Cripple! The Scourge of the East!
[ Suddenly, the image dips, revealing that he's sitting in the grass before a wheelchair. The right wheel has somehow broken off; he's holding it in his lap, the fingers of his left hand blackened from where he'd been clutching the mud-encrusted rim.
The image jerks back to his face. He's still grinning. ]
Roy Walker's the name. Who's brave enough to come slay a dragon?
