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@Dark Light
The lights suddenly went out and Lucca swore in Gaelic. "Bloody, 'ell," he snarled. "Can't a guy get a fecking decent motel to rent a room from?"
The female on his bed asked him if he was going to introduce himself or not, sounding irritated. Oh she was fecking irritated? If anyone had a right to be irritated, it was him, and feck, was she going off on him? Ballsy, cursed wench!
"Tis no' my fecking fault ye doona have any fecking common sense, ye mouthy chit!" he snapped. "Who the feck jumps through a goddamned window like fecking movie stuntman? And as fer the bed, ye hateful brat, I figured twas better than groaning in pain on the thrice-dammned floor!" Oh, yeah. His sailor's mouth got even worse than normal when he was pissed. His eyes flashed yellowgreen in what little light shone through the window, the slit pupils wide and eerie. The light also made his face look as if it was carved out of stone. She was silent for a moment, and he could hear her take in a few breaths.
"There's a bar downstairs right? Take me there. Oh and bring my suitcase," her words were softer this time.
"Listen here, ye silly chit," he ground his teeth. "If ye were no' hurt-which i can tell by yer smell and labored breathing-I'd paddle yer ass. But since I can see in the dark, and ye obviously can't, I'll play nice. Oh, and I'll tell ye my name when ye tell me yours. Who are ye anyway," he grouched, finding his way over to her suitcase, onto which he scratched the words, "Mind yer manners, wench. ~L. Valentine."
"Fecking berating me on my fecking manners for nor introducing myself at the next possible moment, when you're the one what's bein fecking rude, who also threw herself into my fecking room," he added. "And the only one to really blame for whatever injuries ye have is yer own thrice-damned self." He growled-literally-deep in his throat as he made his way over to her. He gently but firmly grabbed her by the neck and half pushed/half dragged her off the bed and onto her feet. Once he was satisfied she was standing okay, he held onto her wrist.
"Doona try to wrench your hand from me," he warned. "I'll leave ye here in the dark fer whatever bastards may try to turn you into a 'bullet pinata.' Besides, how else are ye gonna find the bar, aye?"
With that said, he began to lead her out of the room, warning her when they came upon the stairs.
The lights suddenly went out and Lucca swore in Gaelic. "Bloody, 'ell," he snarled. "Can't a guy get a fecking decent motel to rent a room from?"
The female on his bed asked him if he was going to introduce himself or not, sounding irritated. Oh she was fecking irritated? If anyone had a right to be irritated, it was him, and feck, was she going off on him? Ballsy, cursed wench!
"Tis no' my fecking fault ye doona have any fecking common sense, ye mouthy chit!" he snapped. "Who the feck jumps through a goddamned window like fecking movie stuntman? And as fer the bed, ye hateful brat, I figured twas better than groaning in pain on the thrice-dammned floor!" Oh, yeah. His sailor's mouth got even worse than normal when he was pissed. His eyes flashed yellowgreen in what little light shone through the window, the slit pupils wide and eerie. The light also made his face look as if it was carved out of stone. She was silent for a moment, and he could hear her take in a few breaths.
"There's a bar downstairs right? Take me there. Oh and bring my suitcase," her words were softer this time.
"Listen here, ye silly chit," he ground his teeth. "If ye were no' hurt-which i can tell by yer smell and labored breathing-I'd paddle yer ass. But since I can see in the dark, and ye obviously can't, I'll play nice. Oh, and I'll tell ye my name when ye tell me yours. Who are ye anyway," he grouched, finding his way over to her suitcase, onto which he scratched the words, "Mind yer manners, wench. ~L. Valentine."
"Fecking berating me on my fecking manners for nor introducing myself at the next possible moment, when you're the one what's bein fecking rude, who also threw herself into my fecking room," he added. "And the only one to really blame for whatever injuries ye have is yer own thrice-damned self." He growled-literally-deep in his throat as he made his way over to her. He gently but firmly grabbed her by the neck and half pushed/half dragged her off the bed and onto her feet. Once he was satisfied she was standing okay, he held onto her wrist.
"Doona try to wrench your hand from me," he warned. "I'll leave ye here in the dark fer whatever bastards may try to turn you into a 'bullet pinata.' Besides, how else are ye gonna find the bar, aye?"
With that said, he began to lead her out of the room, warning her when they came upon the stairs.