[ Faraday lets out a low whistle, stamping snow from his boots. ]
Good Lord, you're surly.
[ He says it with a hint of amusement, pausing to dig the heel of his palm into the sore muscle of his thigh. The wound had healed, but the bullet that had torn through his leg did him few favors in the cold. After a few careful stretches, bracing himself against the wall for balance, he trusts his leg to bear his weight. He crosses the room, seeking out the pantry. ]
no subject
Good Lord, you're surly.
[ He says it with a hint of amusement, pausing to dig the heel of his palm into the sore muscle of his thigh. The wound had healed, but the bullet that had torn through his leg did him few favors in the cold. After a few careful stretches, bracing himself against the wall for balance, he trusts his leg to bear his weight. He crosses the room, seeking out the pantry. ]
What's gotten into you, anyway?