[please don't mind the flamingo hair icons and just assume he's blond because i cannot photoshop. /fingerguns.]
I.-
Field duty was one thing, back home. Filthy work, yes, but work that had to be done and at least brought with it some kind of reward-- being human meant needing the food they grew, after all. This? This is a completely different matter, and one that he's not at all dressed for.
--Not that he is dressed for much that's useful, probably, but the point remains.
He isn't one to shirk directions given (not that he's in any position to, he's sure), but neither is he terribly enthusiastic about it, using the end of the broom to prod idly at the spilled remains of a jar of... something. Souza has no idea what a decent amount of these things even are, only that what's on the floor in front of him looks disgusting.
"They don't expect us to pick this up, do they... we'll get filthy at that rate," he murmurs as he squints down at it. "Can you even tell if this is worth keeping?"
II-
The first step in dealing with a problem like this is to make it easier on yourself, if possible; unfortunately, just about everything about this man is something that causes trouble in getting him the hell out of here and succeeding in his objective.
There is one way, though, to make dealing with him much easier.
Getting him out the door is a struggle, but once outside and once he's fairly sure there's no one else observing-- ah. Souza's hand must have slipped while trying to help shift the Marquis' weight a bit, and how convenient that it happened to slip in just the right spot to knock the man unconscious. He's halfway there anyway, he reasons. Just needed a bit of a push. (And he was already so tired of listening to drunken babbling and, worst of all, being clung to.)
"He really has had far too much to drink," he says casually to his companion, as he adjusts his hold-- how can one human be so difficult to lift? "I expect he'll have something of a headache from it all in the morning. Give me a hand bringing him home, won't you?"
souza samonji | touken ranbu
I.-
Field duty was one thing, back home. Filthy work, yes, but work that had to be done and at least brought with it some kind of reward-- being human meant needing the food they grew, after all. This? This is a completely different matter, and one that he's not at all dressed for.
--Not that he is dressed for much that's useful, probably, but the point remains.
He isn't one to shirk directions given (not that he's in any position to, he's sure), but neither is he terribly enthusiastic about it, using the end of the broom to prod idly at the spilled remains of a jar of... something. Souza has no idea what a decent amount of these things even are, only that what's on the floor in front of him looks disgusting.
"They don't expect us to pick this up, do they... we'll get filthy at that rate," he murmurs as he squints down at it. "Can you even tell if this is worth keeping?"
II-
The first step in dealing with a problem like this is to make it easier on yourself, if possible; unfortunately, just about everything about this man is something that causes trouble in getting him the hell out of here and succeeding in his objective.
There is one way, though, to make dealing with him much easier.
Getting him out the door is a struggle, but once outside and once he's fairly sure there's no one else observing-- ah. Souza's hand must have slipped while trying to help shift the Marquis' weight a bit, and how convenient that it happened to slip in just the right spot to knock the man unconscious. He's halfway there anyway, he reasons. Just needed a bit of a push. (And he was already so tired of listening to drunken babbling and, worst of all, being clung to.)
"He really has had far too much to drink," he says casually to his companion, as he adjusts his hold-- how can one human be so difficult to lift? "I expect he'll have something of a headache from it all in the morning. Give me a hand bringing him home, won't you?"