"Sounds like a party," Peter's grin widens for a second. "Peter Quill. Hi."
Tisarwat's got short hair - makes sense - but he has to wonder about how old she is because he swears she's still a kid. She's lean, though, and he figures that must mean she's quick on her feet and she can squeeze into some places he can't. Good sign. As much as Peter used to do the whole handsome lone wolf, ex-Ravager striking out on his own thing, the truth is he just feels better when he has someone watching his back.
Peter reaches for the ragged backpack he left on the crate, canvas stitched with some pretty suspicious dark stains he bets is the previous owner's blood, and hoists it over his shoulders. Take only what you can carry. That's the magic motto for today because he can't assume his ship's nearby and all the toys he would've had? Gone. It's pure old school.
"C'mon. We're supposed to check out the east side. Supposed to be a convoy that didn't make it home."
Peter's weapon of choice is a crowbar with strips of leather wrapped tight, hopefully to keep it from jostling out of his arms. His grip tightens on it as he turns and leads the way to the gate, riddled with spikes and corrugated metal and he can see the guards up top are trying to pry off the fresh corpses who impaled themselves out of curiosity in the night. Some of them are still swatting at the long sticks, groaning and drooling black fluid.
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Tisarwat's got short hair - makes sense - but he has to wonder about how old she is because he swears she's still a kid. She's lean, though, and he figures that must mean she's quick on her feet and she can squeeze into some places he can't. Good sign. As much as Peter used to do the whole handsome lone wolf, ex-Ravager striking out on his own thing, the truth is he just feels better when he has someone watching his back.
Peter reaches for the ragged backpack he left on the crate, canvas stitched with some pretty suspicious dark stains he bets is the previous owner's blood, and hoists it over his shoulders. Take only what you can carry. That's the magic motto for today because he can't assume his ship's nearby and all the toys he would've had? Gone. It's pure old school.
"C'mon. We're supposed to check out the east side. Supposed to be a convoy that didn't make it home."
Peter's weapon of choice is a crowbar with strips of leather wrapped tight, hopefully to keep it from jostling out of his arms. His grip tightens on it as he turns and leads the way to the gate, riddled with spikes and corrugated metal and he can see the guards up top are trying to pry off the fresh corpses who impaled themselves out of curiosity in the night. Some of them are still swatting at the long sticks, groaning and drooling black fluid.