[ a curt nod. for the most part, he can walk. he's been fed until now, there's no reason he can't pick up his strength the more he was able to stretch and station his legs more firmly as they walked through dim hallways of the former shelter. he hears no sound beyond their own footsteps and mistakes a double-beat for an echo. there is no pull on angelo's clothing, but there is a short stop when the voice of a young man calls out behind them:
Falco? Are you here?
it mimics human concern and urgency down to the very last drip. his heart drops to his gut and the hairs scaling the back of his neck stand. he wouldn't be able to hear that voice again, and it sends an eerie chill up and down his spine. his eyes blink, and keep blinking. his chest feels hot and his nose burns. he wants to cry. ]
Bruf— [ falco gives angelo a gentle draw, in that direction, his head twisting to him and back to the cast shadows, once, twice, thrice— the unseen young man in a faraway silhouette speaks up again, now with relief and joy as it bends down on its (ball-jointed) knees: Falco! falco can't handle that. not when mister erwin has said the dead may end up alive here. his attempt to speak is ugly. it's splattered with spit and forced through his teeth. ] My, [ his tug slips from his fingers and he very nearly, if allowed, goes toward the caller, ] it'sh my bruver—
no subject
Falco? Are you here?
it mimics human concern and urgency down to the very last drip. his heart drops to his gut and the hairs scaling the back of his neck stand. he wouldn't be able to hear that voice again, and it sends an eerie chill up and down his spine. his eyes blink, and keep blinking. his chest feels hot and his nose burns. he wants to cry. ]
Bruf— [ falco gives angelo a gentle draw, in that direction, his head twisting to him and back to the cast shadows, once, twice, thrice— the unseen young man in a faraway silhouette speaks up again, now with relief and joy as it bends down on its (ball-jointed) knees: Falco! falco can't handle that. not when mister erwin has said the dead may end up alive here. his attempt to speak is ugly. it's splattered with spit and forced through his teeth. ] My, [ his tug slips from his fingers and he very nearly, if allowed, goes toward the caller, ] it'sh my bruver—