[Dixon shows up looking pleased with himself, whistling '9 to 5' as he idly swings a headless squirrel by the tail and hikes up the temple steps. He's getting better at this hunter-gatherer thing. This is the third dead animal he's brought for the group food stores this week, and this one he didn't even have to beat to death with a rock. The golden shield now strapped to his back has sides sharp enough that he used it for a clean kill.
He pauses when he sees a new person, then, either figuring they're not a threat or not caring, strolls on past him towards the line of clothing drawstring that's serving as a temporary place to hang up the kills before they're butchered, cleaned, cooked on a stick and meted out to the group.]
Well, I don't know what kind of shitheap you came from. [He's being crass, but he wouldn't be surprised if Alistair came from somewhere that would, in his mind, qualify as a 'shitheap'. He's already run into people from outer space and the Middle Ages here. He's gone numb to it. He still defines "normal" by his hometown's barometer, as if it were the middle of the spectrum from which everything else deviates, but how broad that spectrum is has grown exponentially and he doesn't worry about it anymore.]
Place smells like hell to me. [Dixon's been used to indoor plumbing and daily showers for a while now. People are starting to get a little rank, and their clothes have been taking enough of a beating in the river that everyone's looking scruffy and frayed. Cheap t-shirts and socks weren't made for the harsh realities of camping life. Dixon lucked out by coming in hiking boots and jeans, but some of the poor losers here showed up in Spandex or, bless their souls, full-suit body armor. At least Alistair looks like he's probably ready to last in the elements a little longer than that one kid in pajamas.]
You just show up? It's like we got a whole batch of new people rolling in.
Temple
He pauses when he sees a new person, then, either figuring they're not a threat or not caring, strolls on past him towards the line of clothing drawstring that's serving as a temporary place to hang up the kills before they're butchered, cleaned, cooked on a stick and meted out to the group.]
Well, I don't know what kind of shitheap you came from. [He's being crass, but he wouldn't be surprised if Alistair came from somewhere that would, in his mind, qualify as a 'shitheap'. He's already run into people from outer space and the Middle Ages here. He's gone numb to it. He still defines "normal" by his hometown's barometer, as if it were the middle of the spectrum from which everything else deviates, but how broad that spectrum is has grown exponentially and he doesn't worry about it anymore.]
Place smells like hell to me. [Dixon's been used to indoor plumbing and daily showers for a while now. People are starting to get a little rank, and their clothes have been taking enough of a beating in the river that everyone's looking scruffy and frayed. Cheap t-shirts and socks weren't made for the harsh realities of camping life. Dixon lucked out by coming in hiking boots and jeans, but some of the poor losers here showed up in Spandex or, bless their souls, full-suit body armor. At least Alistair looks like he's probably ready to last in the elements a little longer than that one kid in pajamas.]
You just show up? It's like we got a whole batch of new people rolling in.