It's not too much trouble. Everything is only ever a warp away.
[ That's true about a lot of things, in Caelus's world... but, after a slight pause, during which perhaps he packs that perfect sandwich into something more appropriate for Luocha to receive, he follows that up with a few more messages: ]
and I don't think you have to fix it It's not like you can help your face
I'll be there in a few minutes
[ What if he's wrong, and Luocha is, in fact, some kind of shapeshifter? Caelus muses about it as he makes his way down to the Petrichor Inn, more for the silliness of it all than anything else: suppose the kindly merchant is, in fact, a devil in disguise, one that has purposefully taken on the face of one of Welt's old enemies to haunt him?
It's not something he's contemplating seriously so much as a stupid scenario in his mind he's conjured up because he thinks it's funny to imagine Luocha as a shapeshifter. Briefly, he considers what the merchant would look like with a dragon's head on his body in place of his usually flawless face. Caelus has no way of knowing what happened in Welt's life prior to his arrival on the Astral Express; he knows nothing of a boy named Joachim Nokianvirtanen or the desperate fool named Otto Apocalypse who was both beautiful in his tragedy and tragic in his lunacy. But Welt has a point, in that Luocha does have that kind of face, he muses: too handsome, too perfect. The face of the villain in every video game. The kind of face that exists to remind its audience that beauty has its dangers, and that those who have reached the boundaries of human perfection are very likely to no longer be human.
Anyway, Caelus is a tragic fool in his own way, and he knows it. The type of idiot who'd show up at ass o' clock in the evening just to deliver a snack to someone he can't even really consider a friend. The type of guy who'd do it just because and for no real reason, no expectation of a reward or compensation or anything — maybe 5 Stellar Jades and whatever change Luocha has rattling around in his pocket, at best.
Yeah. That'd be good. Not necessary, but that'd be good.
There's this way that Caelus usually has about him, a determined long-legged stride like that of a thoroughbred racehorse ignoring the cheers and jeers and desperate pleading of its audience to assume its place at the start of the track - today, though, there's something very slightly off about him. He's doing a decent enough job of hiding it, for someone unused to keeping secrets, but it's a very slight, very subtle limp.
As he strides into the lobby of the Petrichor Inn, he looks around. Luocha didn't give him a room number or anything, but he wasn't expecting anything like that, anyway. Maybe he's — ah, there. There's that blond head.
Caelus walks over, smoothly enough. Stops short in front of Luocha, then holds out a little lunchbox tied up in a white linen cloth. ]
Your sandwich, sir. [ A slight pause, and then he mock-bows, mostly to shift his weight onto his back leg instead. ] Correction — your perfect sandwich, sir.
[ His straight-faced silliness has a bit of a different atmosphere when there aren't cute Pom-pom stickers to accompany it. ]
my hands look like this so my rp friends' look like this, etc
Everything is only ever a warp away.
[ That's true about a lot of things, in Caelus's world... but, after a slight pause, during which perhaps he packs that perfect sandwich into something more appropriate for Luocha to receive, he follows that up with a few more messages: ]
and I don't think you have to fix it
It's not like you can help your face
I'll be there in a few minutes
[ What if he's wrong, and Luocha is, in fact, some kind of shapeshifter? Caelus muses about it as he makes his way down to the Petrichor Inn, more for the silliness of it all than anything else: suppose the kindly merchant is, in fact, a devil in disguise, one that has purposefully taken on the face of one of Welt's old enemies to haunt him?
It's not something he's contemplating seriously so much as a stupid scenario in his mind he's conjured up because he thinks it's funny to imagine Luocha as a shapeshifter. Briefly, he considers what the merchant would look like with a dragon's head on his body in place of his usually flawless face. Caelus has no way of knowing what happened in Welt's life prior to his arrival on the Astral Express; he knows nothing of a boy named Joachim Nokianvirtanen or the desperate fool named Otto Apocalypse who was both beautiful in his tragedy and tragic in his lunacy. But Welt has a point, in that Luocha does have that kind of face, he muses: too handsome, too perfect. The face of the villain in every video game. The kind of face that exists to remind its audience that beauty has its dangers, and that those who have reached the boundaries of human perfection are very likely to no longer be human.
Anyway, Caelus is a tragic fool in his own way, and he knows it. The type of idiot who'd show up at ass o' clock in the evening just to deliver a snack to someone he can't even really consider a friend. The type of guy who'd do it just because and for no real reason, no expectation of a reward or compensation or anything — maybe 5 Stellar Jades and whatever change Luocha has rattling around in his pocket, at best.
Yeah. That'd be good. Not necessary, but that'd be good.
There's this way that Caelus usually has about him, a determined long-legged stride like that of a thoroughbred racehorse ignoring the cheers and jeers and desperate pleading of its audience to assume its place at the start of the track - today, though, there's something very slightly off about him. He's doing a decent enough job of hiding it, for someone unused to keeping secrets, but it's a very slight, very subtle limp.
As he strides into the lobby of the Petrichor Inn, he looks around. Luocha didn't give him a room number or anything, but he wasn't expecting anything like that, anyway. Maybe he's — ah, there. There's that blond head.
Caelus walks over, smoothly enough. Stops short in front of Luocha, then holds out a little lunchbox tied up in a white linen cloth. ]
Your sandwich, sir. [ A slight pause, and then he mock-bows, mostly to shift his weight onto his back leg instead. ] Correction — your perfect sandwich, sir.
[ His straight-faced silliness has a bit of a different atmosphere when there aren't cute Pom-pom stickers to accompany it. ]