Re: The Priest's Hole: Jules & Ford
Ford tilted his chin up toward the ceiling and rolled the top of his head (messy from general disuse and damp from the cellar's wet) all the way down into the bag so he could get a relatively clear view of the angelic blonde descending to earth amongst the barrels and the rabble. He had a relatively pointed chin and despite his unimpressive attire, he still had twice as much muscle on him as the glowing waif on the floor. Then he smiled, and it was all wet pink lips and earnest, starry-eyed liquor dreams on his face.
He rolled over off the backpack, and his head nearly thunked the packed earth away from the padding, but he caught it just in time as he came up off a shoulder and sat up. His head did a whirl that tasted of apples and he rocked his head back and forth a few times to clear it, gently, thick lashes fluttering all the while. He then gave Jules a faintly guilty look, courtesy of the blond's accent, which he associated with the surrounding area.
Then he took a closer look, and his transparent face turned perplexed. Jules had a ethereal beauty that Ford was too innocent to try to place, but that ribbon didn't belong on this island, not in quite that way. Ford wasn't sure whether Jules was male or female, even now that he was in front of him, and he'd never been confronted with that particular situation before. He smiled at Jules anyway, because Ford was drunk and Jules was pretty as white flowers.
Ford put out a hand in front of his chest and rocked it back and forth, palm down. Maybe some. He pulled the heel of one thick work boot under a folding knee as he sat upright proudly to carry on a conversation without words. He indicated Jules with one polite hand (such enthusiastic gestures, hic) and then at the device glowing in a scroll of text to one side of the bag. He gave an exaggerated tip of his head in question. That you?