[ squatting precariously in the barest patch of jungle floor he could find, Wolfwood's on his second-to-last cigarette. yes, already. since first moving on from the smoking remains of their lodge, he has been steadily losing layers and is now down to a barely-buttoned white shirt, blazer slung over his shoulder, and because he came from the kind of hellish place where it was all sand and no... anything else, gracefully handling a muggy climate was just not in his cards. every inch of him is shiny with sweat, sticking his shirt to him in long translucent patches.
it's trashy as hell.
he also seems to be having trouble catching his breath with all this rigorous hiking. or maybe he's playing that part up. it is a mystery. ]
D; resting (because he's lazy trash)
it's trashy as hell.
he also seems to be having trouble catching his breath with all this rigorous hiking. or maybe he's playing that part up. it is a mystery. ]
Lord, what am I doin'...