[ There's a low whisper of sound in reply, short and oddly stuttered - if he's hurt, it must be something bad. Maybe he's been paralyzed by some other irritating little monster lurking in the thicket, fast and stinging like all the rest. Or maybe it's only Slow, and he's struggling to speak as whatever cast its sinking web over him slithers back into the underbrush. He leaves plenty of time to contemplate the possibilities, if not intentionally, between her approach - and when he lifts his head past the shield of his mud-caked forearm, at last.
Her momentary fear of catching that bright, feral rage in his eyes proves unfounded (they're closed), but the flash of teeth brings up the distinct impression of a grimace. At least until the second, louder soft chuff of a sound escapes him; it's deep and still painfully subdued, but there's no mistaking it, either.
He's laughing. At her, at the situation, at the mess he's made of himself - at the fleeting, passing hope of rain over the open top of the buggy to clear it away, and how utterly futile that one thought renders all the rest of this terrific struggle. It doesn't really matter, because he isn't so sure, himself.
And none of it does a damn thing to change the fact that he's filthy and not improving, still halfway up to his ankles in the mire and leaning on a vehicle he'd rather push over a cliff than drive another mile for support, laughing fit to split. And just as quietly and politely as she was trying to. ]
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Her momentary fear of catching that bright, feral rage in his eyes proves unfounded (they're closed), but the flash of teeth brings up the distinct impression of a grimace. At least until the second, louder soft chuff of a sound escapes him; it's deep and still painfully subdued, but there's no mistaking it, either.
He's laughing. At her, at the situation, at the mess he's made of himself - at the fleeting, passing hope of rain over the open top of the buggy to clear it away, and how utterly futile that one thought renders all the rest of this terrific struggle. It doesn't really matter, because he isn't so sure, himself.
And none of it does a damn thing to change the fact that he's filthy and not improving, still halfway up to his ankles in the mire and leaning on a vehicle he'd rather push over a cliff than drive another mile for support, laughing fit to split. And just as quietly and politely as she was trying to. ]