[They don't date him as much as ink of Flint's era might in retrospect, but he can tell they were done with tools and skills well beyond someone hammering Indian ink or laundry bluing into skin. He spares them but a moment's attention. Details committed to memory. Then he arches an eyebrow and, certainly, meets the man's eyes without anything approaching warmth or even the mildest cessation of his distaste.
He can't help himself: he's incredulous. Tattoos, certainly, even in his time were a mark of the lower class or of some criminality. So, there is an assumption of kindred spirits. Something in his own nature that's given him away, known quantities. A look, perhaps, or the scars on his hands. The hard set to his jaw and brow, the utter lack of fear or wonderment. Flint does not hide that he's a dangerous man, but most consider it cause for intrigue or avoidance, rarely a consideration of like minds.
But the presentation is markedly juvenile. Would that apathy were the cure for consequence, he'd have stood outside all the laws of men now for a decade, unmired in the frivolity of it all. The ground is even more uncertain here, in this untenable place, where nothing is yet known by rote. Recklessness without obvious gain is something he does not care to abide.
And the implication: that such things are still illegal, still shameful, still looked down upon is itself unspeakably infuriating. He is not a hopeful man, but God more than once he'd thought that in another time or place the three of them could have had an honest life together--
He scoffs in seeming, almost sympathetic amusement, shakes his head and then reaches out to pat the man on the shoulder, left-handed. His touch is measured: not light, not bruising. It also puts him in an incredibly good position to pull him forward into the blade of a knife, should he feel it necessary.]
I applaud your [a sharp, calculated pause.] audacity. But you'll not find me an appropriate partner.
no subject
He can't help himself: he's incredulous. Tattoos, certainly, even in his time were a mark of the lower class or of some criminality. So, there is an assumption of kindred spirits. Something in his own nature that's given him away, known quantities. A look, perhaps, or the scars on his hands. The hard set to his jaw and brow, the utter lack of fear or wonderment. Flint does not hide that he's a dangerous man, but most consider it cause for intrigue or avoidance, rarely a consideration of like minds.
But the presentation is markedly juvenile. Would that apathy were the cure for consequence, he'd have stood outside all the laws of men now for a decade, unmired in the frivolity of it all. The ground is even more uncertain here, in this untenable place, where nothing is yet known by rote. Recklessness without obvious gain is something he does not care to abide.
And the implication: that such things are still illegal, still shameful, still looked down upon is itself unspeakably infuriating. He is not a hopeful man, but God more than once he'd thought that in another time or place the three of them could have had an honest life together--
He scoffs in seeming, almost sympathetic amusement, shakes his head and then reaches out to pat the man on the shoulder, left-handed. His touch is measured: not light, not bruising. It also puts him in an incredibly good position to pull him forward into the blade of a knife, should he feel it necessary.]
I applaud your [a sharp, calculated pause.] audacity. But you'll not find me an appropriate partner.