notabluesbro: ([Curious] Ohohoho is that so?)
[Wolfwood's annoyed. Vash was snatched up just as things were getting calm, so to appease his gnawing aggravation over needle noggin's surprise vacation, he took to the lake more often; shockingly, he was getting pretty good at it, and as the days wore on, he was clearing more distance without stopping for a breather. Not to mention, staying stationary in Luceti meant losing muscle mass, and he had no room for losing the ability to tote that heavy son-of-a-bitch gun.

Of course, that talk with Sanji a few days back had him thinking. Always thinking, this one. He sits under a tree by the lake, still wet from the swim, with pen in hand. The question really takes him back. Reminds him of Vash and the girls, and of himself.]

[Written]


Hey, a question—how many of you were nomadic? Traveled from place to place, not really labeling one single town or house as a home?

[....]

And what d'you think of being stuck in one place?

[Afterwards, he starts back home after practicing Fire and his just recently sought-after wind magic (he spends a great deal of his time dealing with the spirits, now, because getting better and stronger was important; protecting people was important). Catch him on the way back if you want, or out training in the fields, or prior, at the lake. Whatever floats your boat.]
notabluesbro: ([Worried] That's not a flesh wound.)
[There's a small ruckus at the lake—splashing, and then perhaps a quieted (but strangled none-the-less) intake of breath. Not the sound of pain, but of air refilling tired lungs. Wolfwood, clad in rolled-up pants and a T-shit—what an image, him in anything other than a suit—would walk just far enough into the water to feel the sensation of losing balance. Floating uncomfortably.

Water never looked so impending and dangerous before... hell, before it was more of a source of life. Now, he isn't sure... because when he'd been teleported into it, he could only remember the light from the sky fading away and his vision becoming blackness. It reminded him of something he didn't like thinking about.

Makes him wanna smother it out.

He paddles with his hands for a few seconds in water just tall enough to hover in and sinks for a few seconds. Paces back up a muddy slope. Let's try that again. Swims, swims—sinks. He always feels so heavy. The water's thicker than it looks, he surmises. Maybe.

Swim swim sink.

...

Splish!

Gaaasp—

And this continues for a little while. After he tries once he pulls back up to the safety of the shallow, looks around in the usual paranoia, and goes for it again. Before he tried swimming, he really didn't feel any compulsion to learn it. But now that he was in the water, the more he failed, the more it pissed him off. Pissed him way off.

One can find him here, trying to swim, or him just tossed into the grass nearby shaking the water off his hair. His cross is leaned against a tree and a duffel bag next to it, in which you may catch him dragging his regular clothes on over his wet ones.]

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Nicholas D. Wolfwood

November 2012

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