[ Hayame suddenly appears and Amos jerks bolt upright, his attempts to take a step backwards turning more into a stumble. Walking forwards is one thing, up a mountain another, but backwards poses its own new challenge, and when a hind hoof he isn't used to and can't see where it's going catches something he almost lurches to the side before catching himself against that tree. Using it to regain his footing again proper as Hayame addresses the kid.
He doesn't have much of a mane to speak of, a thin trail running down his spine; his tail is cropped short, matching the hair atop his head. For as disorienting as this body ultimately is, it has managed to match him — solid and stocky, the muscles that have always been present in his arms and core matching up with those in four legs, a second core. It's the one saving grace to it: this is who he is, this is undeniably still his body, if a little extra at the moment.
Mikuni means nothing to him; Amos is just grateful the kid is gone. Isn't particularly happy about how scared he'd looked, the speed at which he'd taken off at (like he's a threat), but it's kind of trivial in the big and small scales.
The big scale because the kid isn't going to last much longer, doomed to the end of whatever this thing is.
The small because Hayame looks about ready to kill him, and his hand drifts towards the holster of the gun that had blessedly stayed with him, resting above where human half transitions to horse, settling atop its butt but not drawing it just yet. An unspoken warning: because unless he gets an incredibly lucky strike with this stocky but slowed body, he knows he can't beat her in anything physical. ]
I'm not fucking doing anything. [ His words are frustrated in turn, because he isn't. He's just minding his own business, trying to kill these twelve hours on his own. ] It's one vote. And your world's already dead. What I do here doesn't make a difference.
[ It doesn't. His free hand moves to indicate the direction the kid took off in. ]
Go see that he gets back safe. I got no intentions of doing anything but riding this out, so your focus should be on him, not me.
no subject
He doesn't have much of a mane to speak of, a thin trail running down his spine; his tail is cropped short, matching the hair atop his head. For as disorienting as this body ultimately is, it has managed to match him — solid and stocky, the muscles that have always been present in his arms and core matching up with those in four legs, a second core. It's the one saving grace to it: this is who he is, this is undeniably still his body, if a little extra at the moment.
Mikuni means nothing to him; Amos is just grateful the kid is gone. Isn't particularly happy about how scared he'd looked, the speed at which he'd taken off at (like he's a threat), but it's kind of trivial in the big and small scales.
The big scale because the kid isn't going to last much longer, doomed to the end of whatever this thing is.
The small because Hayame looks about ready to kill him, and his hand drifts towards the holster of the gun that had blessedly stayed with him, resting above where human half transitions to horse, settling atop its butt but not drawing it just yet. An unspoken warning: because unless he gets an incredibly lucky strike with this stocky but slowed body, he knows he can't beat her in anything physical. ]
I'm not fucking doing anything. [ His words are frustrated in turn, because he isn't. He's just minding his own business, trying to kill these twelve hours on his own. ] It's one vote. And your world's already dead. What I do here doesn't make a difference.
[ It doesn't. His free hand moves to indicate the direction the kid took off in. ]
Go see that he gets back safe. I got no intentions of doing anything but riding this out, so your focus should be on him, not me.