[@Plank Sinatra][@Write][@Silvan Haven][@HereComesTheSnow]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/foO0yFo.png[/img][/center]

The movement of the glowing red strands, rearing back almost like a snake, immediately caught Gratia's onyx gaze. The hair had moved on its own, without any physical interaction with the world around it. She could feel a hiss at the back of her throat. It was just her fucking luck to find another boy with stupidly active hair. And it glowed too, as if being able to move wasn't excessive enough. It was [i]irksome[/i]. Yet she tore her eyes away from it, focusing her attentions on the wounded figure as a whole. She could deal with the bullshit that was the world's love for strange hair later. What was important now was establishing what the fuck had happened.

Only an idiot would fail to realise that the man ... [i]boy[/i] (the figure's relatively youthful face suggested he was near their age) was likely a participant in the fracas that they had all heard earlier. The participant that had emerged victorious, having killed the personality that had once resided in the piece of trash that was now sinking into the dark ocean depths. Even in such a wounded state and his failure to avoid the intimate embrace of a food cart, it was clear to Gratia that the boy was likely trained. His body looked fit, and that pathetic attempt at trying to return to a proper posture was further evidence to her hypothesis.

It was like the fool wanted to fucking die or something.

Gratia Mindaro wouldn't let him. Not until somebody explained what the fuck was going on. Who was he? What was his purpose here? Who had he killed? Why was he in the room next to Nuit's? And would his presence prove to be irksome to her time on this cruise?

"[color=66cd00]Not until you tell me what I want to know,[/color]" was her cold, flat response. "[color=66cd00]Get on the fucking bed. If you want to avoid bleeding to death like a hen in a sketchy Mistralese slaughterhouse, don't even try to argue.[/color]"

She swept her eyes over his form once more. The strangely ornate glove (what were those inscriptions?) that was met by bandages at the elbow was the stand-out of his appearance. It was an eerie thing, the metallic sheen under the dull light of the room unbefitting the nature of its leatherlike material. Usually, there would have been no issue as writing it off as a hideous asymmetrical fashion choice that was little more than evidence for the boy being a possible huntsman (the fashion of those with power tended to be more uniquely retarded), but the tight clenching of the hand it covered ... there was something off. The amount of force put into the clench seemed excessive to the amount of pain he should've been feeling.

Fortunately for him, he would be freed from being fucked over by that pain soon enough.

"[color=66cd00]Schwarz, heal him,[/color]" she continued, her tone growing slightly commanding. "[color=66cd00]Nuit, if he resists, punch him.[/color]"

Her impassive gaze locked onto the boy's.

"[color=66cd00]So who are you, and what the fuck led to you killing and throwing someone off this shitty boat?[/color]"