[Dutch can pretend to be a civilized man, a man of culture, of politesse and propriety. He was pretending quite well the night before, up until the brandy started flowing and the gang went off to tend to their separate vices, while he spent time mingling in the saloon with new faces. His mask dropped - at least the mask of a proper gentleman - and that's when he and Faith started to talk.
He's not entirely sure what to make of the young woman, to be honest. She has the spark of someone individual, someone with the drive and heart to truly make a mark upon the world. It's a heartening thing to see, when it comes down to it. Dutch can't say he's ever been anything but taken by those who live their own lives unrepentant of their personalities, their individuality, their brashness and fire. So many people in their world let the rules of common society snuff out that flame before it's much more than a spark. He can't abide by that kind of thing. Faith is, however, stronger than any shit like that. She has eschewed the normal. And that's a delight.
As he walks back with a dainty little package of pastries, and a smaller bag of coffee grounds - freshly ground, none of this tinned shit he often found himself having to endure - he keeps his head tilted downward. Not just to shield his eyes from the sun due to the persistent thrum of a hangover, but to keep his face from being recognized. It's second nature now, to stay incognito, to obfuscate himself so as to keep his family safe.
After knocking on the door and waiting patiently, he nods his good morning to Faith, and steps in, immediately taking in his surroundings. His voice is quieter than the boisterous thunder it had been the night prior, but not out of lack of enthusiasm, but rather, for the necessity to keep himself from growing nauseous due to the loud sounds.
Weapons. Weapons everywhere. A twitch of a smile lifts his mustache up on one side, and he makes his way to the closest table, to open the box of pastries.]
Here you go, my dear. [he offers over a muffin.]
To soak up what's left of the alcohol.
[He has his own croissant in hand shortly after.] Have you got a coffee pot? I'll be glad to start some. [For himself, if nothing else.]
You certainly aren't here to make nice. [he nods subtly to the weapons.] Woe be to those who cross the path of Faith Lehane.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2021-10-16 05:18 pm (UTC)He's not entirely sure what to make of the young woman, to be honest. She has the spark of someone individual, someone with the drive and heart to truly make a mark upon the world. It's a heartening thing to see, when it comes down to it. Dutch can't say he's ever been anything but taken by those who live their own lives unrepentant of their personalities, their individuality, their brashness and fire. So many people in their world let the rules of common society snuff out that flame before it's much more than a spark. He can't abide by that kind of thing. Faith is, however, stronger than any shit like that. She has eschewed the normal. And that's a delight.
As he walks back with a dainty little package of pastries, and a smaller bag of coffee grounds - freshly ground, none of this tinned shit he often found himself having to endure - he keeps his head tilted downward. Not just to shield his eyes from the sun due to the persistent thrum of a hangover, but to keep his face from being recognized. It's second nature now, to stay incognito, to obfuscate himself so as to keep his family safe.
After knocking on the door and waiting patiently, he nods his good morning to Faith, and steps in, immediately taking in his surroundings. His voice is quieter than the boisterous thunder it had been the night prior, but not out of lack of enthusiasm, but rather, for the necessity to keep himself from growing nauseous due to the loud sounds.
Weapons. Weapons everywhere. A twitch of a smile lifts his mustache up on one side, and he makes his way to the closest table, to open the box of pastries.]
Here you go, my dear. [he offers over a muffin.]
To soak up what's left of the alcohol.
[He has his own croissant in hand shortly after.] Have you got a coffee pot? I'll be glad to start some. [For himself, if nothing else.]
You certainly aren't here to make nice. [he nods subtly to the weapons.] Woe be to those who cross the path of Faith Lehane.