"Israeli," he offers absently, which -- just looking at him with that information is enough to come to some informed assumptions about his background. "But I was in Izmir before here."
His feet feel leaden when he makes the short trip up the stairs to the front door, and he stops up short just inside the threshold. He swallows, feeling vaguely sick. This is by far not the worst thing he's ever seen, it's just -- the uniformity of those spirals is so unnatural it makes his skin crawl. Nothing that perfect should be able to come out of a human hand, and he finds himself drifting towards one of the walls, staring at them with a sort of horrified fascination.
He doesn't touch anything, although he figures nothing on the walls is harmful -- he just doesn't want to disturb anything. But he does get fairly close, looking at those brown-red stains, wondering... but he can't remember if he saw if that man had any injuries, is this his? Or did it come from someone else?
"Did he look... hurt, to you?" he asks, his voice tight. "Any cuts?"
Now his response focuses, like something in him sharpens, because whatever went down here is a giant unknown and neither of them actually know whether this house is now unoccupied. Something about the way he moves is distinctly out of place with the rest of him -- he moves through the room with a trained cautiousness, checking every potential hiding place as if he expects there to be something dangerous there, securing the room before he moves on. He's adult and Israeli, it makes sense that he's ex-military; he looks just old enough to have completed his compulsory service.
For the thousandth time this week alone, he wishes he had a gun. Even a pistol.
There's nothing downstairs except those spirals all over the walls, which -- he's not sure if that's a relief or not. "I can pull whatever happened here out of the walls," he says in a low voice, but he's looking at the stairs leading to the second floor. He wants to secure the entire house before he starts attempting any magic; there are too many unknown factors here.
no subject
His feet feel leaden when he makes the short trip up the stairs to the front door, and he stops up short just inside the threshold. He swallows, feeling vaguely sick. This is by far not the worst thing he's ever seen, it's just -- the uniformity of those spirals is so unnatural it makes his skin crawl. Nothing that perfect should be able to come out of a human hand, and he finds himself drifting towards one of the walls, staring at them with a sort of horrified fascination.
He doesn't touch anything, although he figures nothing on the walls is harmful -- he just doesn't want to disturb anything. But he does get fairly close, looking at those brown-red stains, wondering... but he can't remember if he saw if that man had any injuries, is this his? Or did it come from someone else?
"Did he look... hurt, to you?" he asks, his voice tight. "Any cuts?"
Now his response focuses, like something in him sharpens, because whatever went down here is a giant unknown and neither of them actually know whether this house is now unoccupied. Something about the way he moves is distinctly out of place with the rest of him -- he moves through the room with a trained cautiousness, checking every potential hiding place as if he expects there to be something dangerous there, securing the room before he moves on. He's adult and Israeli, it makes sense that he's ex-military; he looks just old enough to have completed his compulsory service.
For the thousandth time this week alone, he wishes he had a gun. Even a pistol.
There's nothing downstairs except those spirals all over the walls, which -- he's not sure if that's a relief or not. "I can pull whatever happened here out of the walls," he says in a low voice, but he's looking at the stairs leading to the second floor. He wants to secure the entire house before he starts attempting any magic; there are too many unknown factors here.