[ on the other hand, Gilgamesh adores libraries; he likes old, interesting things, and he's spent more than a share of time pouring through the library's collection, prior to finally working up the (nerve) interest to wander into the Records room. being that he's not the man that he used to be--the man he's accused of being, it feels like, sometimes, he couldn't help but be terribly curious when it came to finding out more information on who Gilgamesh was outside of the repetitive poetry of the epic, the twenty different translations...
and curiosity killed the cat, as they said. reading of his own exploits had been--odd, but not unexpected. going a step further and reading about them, though, perhaps that'd been a mistake, even if Gil didn't make those--but he couldn't quite come up with a good explanation for the tightness in his shoulders, the twist in his stomach, the memory of mourning that hangs over him like a shroud, sorrow with nowhere to go
and then Rose invites herself on up to him as the head representative of the Asshole Brigade. the bean weirdo must've been busy with something.
she sneers out her derision and Gilgamesh turns to face her, halfway through pacing as he debates with himself on whether he wants to continue reading, to feel the prickles of memory twisting under his skin like ugly, uncomfortable briars, and Rose has picked the absolute wrong time to test his temper. he fixes her with a look that'd made lesser men squirm in their patent leather shoes, drawn to the fullness of his height. ]
Who in the world are you and what does that mean? [ incredulous, that people in this city thought it was their right to just walk up to people and run their mouths? what was the world coming to? ]
welp
and curiosity killed the cat, as they said. reading of his own exploits had been--odd, but not unexpected. going a step further and reading about them, though, perhaps that'd been a mistake, even if Gil didn't make those--but he couldn't quite come up with a good explanation for the tightness in his shoulders, the twist in his stomach, the memory of mourning that hangs over him like a shroud, sorrow with nowhere to go
and then Rose invites herself on up to him as the head representative of the Asshole Brigade. the bean weirdo must've been busy with something.
she sneers out her derision and Gilgamesh turns to face her, halfway through pacing as he debates with himself on whether he wants to continue reading, to feel the prickles of memory twisting under his skin like ugly, uncomfortable briars, and Rose has picked the absolute wrong time to test his temper. he fixes her with a look that'd made lesser men squirm in their patent leather shoes, drawn to the fullness of his height. ]
Who in the world are you and what does that mean? [ incredulous, that people in this city thought it was their right to just walk up to people and run their mouths? what was the world coming to? ]