He takes the bottle easily, setting it down and beginning to neatly uncap all of the smaller jars he'd found. "I doubt stabbing would accomplish much. But I'd much rather cause a creature to choke on me, than allow it an easy meal." It's murmured darkly, even as he continues moving to sort glasses from lids.
The atmosphere is truly dismal. Both of them seem resigned to the extremely high chances of their deaths, and yet still doing everything they can to make it that much harder to kill them. Perhaps that was what being human was truly about. Stubborn pride overruling the grips of despair and rationality.
"More immediately, I'd thought we could puncture the lids to feed the cloth through. Give it a tighter seal around the top. Perhaps some wax at the base of the wick would prevent spillage, if we were moving too quickly." He shrugs his shoulders as he speaks. He's never made these before, no-- but again, the concept it relatively basic. It's just another object to explode into flames upon impact. He just wants to make sure they don't do so before.
The sound of wine poured into glasses is almost soothing in its simplicity. A dull gurgling of liquid, evenly spaced, pausing in between. The faint bubbling of air being displaced within the bottle. it's almost enough to let him focus on the tedium of the task, as opposed to answering any of Ryo's questions.
Because... no, he has no true goal here, and perhaps that's what's gnawing at him so much. Everything he's meant to be doing is back home. Back beside his comrades, at the command of his brothers and liege. He'd always had a role back there, always had a million and a half tasks to see to. He'd never had to question his own goals, because they were always so obvious. Protect Noctis. See to his health, to his well-being. Ensure he was on the right track to become a good ruler. That he was prepared. More personally, ensure that he had the opportunity to be happy, that the burden of the crown wasn't over-much. Even if that was as basic as picking up the slack in his duties or cooking him a tart to tuck into his lunchbox for school--
His lips press together, and he doesn't even realize that he's stopped portioning out the wine, absorbed in his thoughts as he has been. Because whether Ryo knows it or not, that was exactly the question he doesn't want to face right now.
(No, he doesn't have plans of his own. he never has. That's not what he's meant for. He's always been meant to serve.)
Finally, he opens his mouth as though to speak, but it's a bit more halting. "I'm.... unsure." Perhaps a bit too honest, but this man is a stranger and they're both as good as dead. Why not be honest? "I'm unfamiliar with this place. This fog, these monsters. I don't know that my compatriots are here or even alive."
He looks down at the half-filled mason jar on the floor in front of him, slowly forcing his hands to move again, to finish pouring out the liquor. Perhaps it's tempting to take a mouthful for himself, but he'll resist.
"Other than trying to survive, I'm not sure what there is to be done. Everything I'm meant to be is at their side." After all, the last sixteen years of his life at been in the service of the royal family. Without that--
What was he even doing?
There's not enough to fill the last jar, and so he does take the drink himself-- just a mouthful, entirely too sour and rancid, but even that is, in its own punishing way, a littler satisfying. "And yourself? If you manage to survive through this hellhole, what is your goal?"
AWESOME it works out well for us, lmao (and apologies for THE NOVEL sheesh what happened)
The atmosphere is truly dismal. Both of them seem resigned to the extremely high chances of their deaths, and yet still doing everything they can to make it that much harder to kill them. Perhaps that was what being human was truly about. Stubborn pride overruling the grips of despair and rationality.
"More immediately, I'd thought we could puncture the lids to feed the cloth through. Give it a tighter seal around the top. Perhaps some wax at the base of the wick would prevent spillage, if we were moving too quickly." He shrugs his shoulders as he speaks. He's never made these before, no-- but again, the concept it relatively basic. It's just another object to explode into flames upon impact. He just wants to make sure they don't do so before.
The sound of wine poured into glasses is almost soothing in its simplicity. A dull gurgling of liquid, evenly spaced, pausing in between. The faint bubbling of air being displaced within the bottle. it's almost enough to let him focus on the tedium of the task, as opposed to answering any of Ryo's questions.
Because... no, he has no true goal here, and perhaps that's what's gnawing at him so much. Everything he's meant to be doing is back home. Back beside his comrades, at the command of his brothers and liege. He'd always had a role back there, always had a million and a half tasks to see to. He'd never had to question his own goals, because they were always so obvious. Protect Noctis. See to his health, to his well-being. Ensure he was on the right track to become a good ruler. That he was prepared. More personally, ensure that he had the opportunity to be happy, that the burden of the crown wasn't over-much. Even if that was as basic as picking up the slack in his duties or cooking him a tart to tuck into his lunchbox for school--
His lips press together, and he doesn't even realize that he's stopped portioning out the wine, absorbed in his thoughts as he has been. Because whether Ryo knows it or not, that was exactly the question he doesn't want to face right now.
(No, he doesn't have plans of his own. he never has. That's not what he's meant for. He's always been meant to serve.)
Finally, he opens his mouth as though to speak, but it's a bit more halting. "I'm.... unsure." Perhaps a bit too honest, but this man is a stranger and they're both as good as dead. Why not be honest? "I'm unfamiliar with this place. This fog, these monsters. I don't know that my compatriots are here or even alive."
He looks down at the half-filled mason jar on the floor in front of him, slowly forcing his hands to move again, to finish pouring out the liquor. Perhaps it's tempting to take a mouthful for himself, but he'll resist.
"Other than trying to survive, I'm not sure what there is to be done. Everything I'm meant to be is at their side." After all, the last sixteen years of his life at been in the service of the royal family. Without that--
What was he even doing?
There's not enough to fill the last jar, and so he does take the drink himself-- just a mouthful, entirely too sour and rancid, but even that is, in its own punishing way, a littler satisfying. "And yourself? If you manage to survive through this hellhole, what is your goal?"