(no subject)
Wither's taken himself out of doors.
He's not drunk, though anyone coming too close would catch a number of scents, alcohol, blood, smoke, and cordite among them, clinging to the man.
He finds his way along the trails mostly by familiarity. The lakeside's quiet, dark, and peaceful, the only sound that of water lapping at nearby rocks.
He sits, ignoring the cold, arms wrapped around his knees, face buried in his sleeves.
Tears dampen the fabric. He lets them run, too tired and...too empty, to care.
There's a piece of crumpled newspaper in his hand. He sets it down, still not looking to see what or who is around.
He's not drunk, though anyone coming too close would catch a number of scents, alcohol, blood, smoke, and cordite among them, clinging to the man.
He finds his way along the trails mostly by familiarity. The lakeside's quiet, dark, and peaceful, the only sound that of water lapping at nearby rocks.
He sits, ignoring the cold, arms wrapped around his knees, face buried in his sleeves.
Tears dampen the fabric. He lets them run, too tired and...too empty, to care.
There's a piece of crumpled newspaper in his hand. He sets it down, still not looking to see what or who is around.