[ BLINK ONCE, THEN IT'S GONE / & / JOINING ]

[BUCK]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]/ this is long but most of it's not important tbh, long story short he's close enough to see the lodge / for the lodge to see him, and it's pretty late in the evening.
[ since i don't have his tags, buck is a 30 years old, 6'2, 220 lbs. his hair is dark brown and somewhat short, though it's a little shaggy now since he's been traveling for so long. his eyes are a deep sort of blue that can seem purple like that one actress whose name i cannot remember for the life of me right now ]

Buck can't explain why he's always been more comfortable in the cold. The snow is a such a silent thing, even when it settles onto his shoulders and into the crevices of his clothing. His only concern now is for the wind picking up and blowing it in his face, but as of this moment, even the trees around him are mostly silent. Sleeping, it would seem. His breath floats upwards in cold clouds, and he watches them with some strange sense of peace. Were he to tell the truth, Buck would admit that he had been walking far longer than he would have liked to. Behind him, somewhere much warmer and far more pleasant, lies an abandoned home that now seems more like a grave — although he had hovered there for so long, tentatively, silently hopeful, he had eventually allowed himself to walk. Or perhaps he had never needed to allow himself in the first place. No, it wasn't his own choice that spurred him onward, up this frigid mountain where frost nipped at his fingers and his nose; it was grief.

A quiet thing, even when it was fresh. No matter how Buck tries to convince himself that those wounds on his heart have healed over the months they've been — separated, whether it be by fate or choice, he lies a little bit every time he says it. Nothing quite goes away. He remembers with vivid clarity the first time he met Bo, and the orders that sent him spiraling. Mostly he remembers the words they'd shared before the person he loved chose to walk away, though he doesn't flinch when he thinks of that now. Every now and then, when introspection manages to catch him in a moment of lulled silence, he wonders what exactly it was that he was content with. He truly is content, but not with Bo's fading presence in his life, and not with the loneliness that presses down on his chest. Perhaps he'll never truly know the truth about that. There is no clean answer to his past, no neat lesson to be learned from his suffering. But tomorrow — well, perhaps there's something there. He would have to find out one way or another, would he not? Maybe that is what he's content with now. Nothing more than the simple understanding that he will continue to live another day until, for some reason, he doesn't. Survival has always been the only thing he could ask for, he supposes.

Happiness had never lingered long.

All he has now is some kind of quiet, contemplative, flat contentment, and Buck will search for nothing more. He walks towards Flintlock with no rush in his step. Even when a brush of strong wind sends snow into his collar, he shakes it off and continues forward without so much as a noise. Some years ago, a younger Buck would have reveled in loud, raucous company and the fires they would sit around as they waited for someone to come back with news on contracts or propositions. Today, he has no such friends. It's for the better, though the walk is lonely and gives him too much time for thinking. No matter how he tries convincing his mind to focus on the sound of his boots in the snow, or to take inventory of his belongings (bag, case, bracelet, rabbit's foot), it wanders instead. The only thing that silences it is the setting sun and the sight of a wooden building, smoke rising from a chimney. Comfortable, certainly, though that's not to say he's uncomfortable out here. There seem to be plenty of people nearby, and so the man pauses here, waiting in silence for whatever inspection or interrogation may come when they realize he's a stranger. It's something he's learned to expect from these groups.

What might they find of him? A figure both tall and broad, with a short, scruffy beard and quiet, observant eyes. Buck is an intimidating figure, yet he carries himself with a domineering kindness, some strange mix of disobedient and careful, with one hand keeping the duffel bag securely on his shoulder and the other holding tight to his rifle case. Even his posture shows some strange command of his own body and choices, a warning that he may not take well to those who try to order him around. His clothing is practical and tough, with dull, worn colors, but tended to nonetheless, and it seems that he hasn't been properly cleaned in a month, with the dust on his face and belongings. Traveling would do that to someone.

[TAKANASHI]

[align=center][div style="width: 400pt; text-align: justify; font-size:9pt; line-height:1.7"]//sorry this is such shit quality :/

His family's always fresh on his mind. "Get over it," that spiteful voice in his head says sometimes. "They're gone and you can't do anything." Anyone who's lost people they've cared about knows it isn't that simple. It might be doable, but Joseph hasn't tried. Pursuing their murderers wasn't a distraction from their deaths, and now he just has even more time to think about them. He can't stop the memories most days, and he can't push down the frustration that comes from starting to forget their voices. His brother's voice wasn't as deep as he remembers it, was it? His sister's laugh can't be replicated in his head. It's lighter and brighter than he can make it, and what's worse is that even their faces don't look right. Was his mom's hair this long? Was the scar on his dad's chin that small? Joseph doesn't know, and it terrifies him. He already lost them physically. Is he meant to lose them this way too? Will they become as nameless to him as they were to their killers? It's torture to think about. As bad as finding them. Joseph doesn't even want to forget that, because it was beyond horrendous but they're his family. He doesn't want to forget them completely.

He's not even happy the murderers are dead. It's what they deserved and Joseph delivered, but he's alone with his regrets. It's not possible to be jumping for joy, but he hasn't cried either. He feels suspended and frozen on the cusp of something he can't identify.

Survival is all he has. It's the one thing he's good at if fucking things up doesn't count. He can hunt and fish, garden if he has to. As the last few months have proved, he can also kill a man and leave him for the vultures. It's not what an advertisable skill but he knows the extent of his willingness and that is enough for today. His hand's on the strap of his rifle when he sees the man, and he gets up from his spot cautiously. Doesn't look dangerous, doesn't have anyone with him. Tall. Holding a rifle case and duffle. Joseph could fire off faster since he doesn't have his case with him, unless this is some kind of fast-handed Billy the Kid of rifles. "What do you want. Don't recommend any sudden movements."

[BUCK]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]/ it's not shitty ! thank you for responding

Wasn't it, though? Or shouldn't it be? Buck doesn't always struggle with getting over it — he tells himself that he's long since moved on, and it's not entirely untrue. He didn't try, and he doesn't have to; he simply has to respect that whatever he may think of what happened between them, it had been Bo's choice to walk away. There are still some nights where he falls asleep waiting contentedly for those dreams of him. Still, Joseph was right about at least one thing: loved ones are impossible to replicate. He can never seem to get the shade of Bo's eyes completely right, and curve of his jaw never seems to settle. He's content, he's calm — at this point, it's a curse that Buck can't seem to shake off of his shoulders. An emotionlessness that's only gotten him into trouble since it had settled on top of him. Like a blanket at first, keeping him safe from the world's cold, and then like an elephant, pressing down, down, down until Buck cracked and split at the edges. He tells himself that he's okay with losing Bo; perhaps he really is. But he doesn't think he can be okay with losing him because of this. Because of something that he did, something he couldn't stop.

His entire adult life had been spent leaving people to the vultures. He'd never felt the need to prove that he could, not when people tended to look at his height and the gun case he carries with him and assume that much, at least. Deep, purple-blue eyes are impassive when he blinks, subtly taking in the details of his appearance without nervousness or concern. Had he wanted Joseph dead, he would be dead, and he can assume the same in reverse. The man has a rifle, after all. That earns at least a modicum of respect from Buck, though he can't help but worry after the fate of his own gun in this cold. At least the case should help some. "Take it easy," he says, his voice a calm, almost soothing drawl. "'M not interested in getting in trouble without a gun in my hand." Buck sighs and shifts slightly, widening his arms in a subtle what now gesture. "This's Flintlock, if I heard right on my way here?"

[TAKANASHI]

[align=center][div style="width: 400pt; text-align: justify; font-size:9pt; line-height:1.7"]Walking away's not the same as death. Joseph's been on both sides of the exchange and it's not like coming home hungover to his family gone beyond reach. If they packed up and left one day it would have been better for them. What's more is they weren't some romantic figure in his life, and Joseph can't even say he's had one of those. There's a chance they're similar since he just doesn't know, but of the conquests he's entertained their deaths wouldn't scar a fifth as badly as his family's. He knows his capabilities and so he knows he won't ever get over that day. Revenge has hollowed him out more and hasn't brought any of them back, and if only it was their choice that they left Joseph's life. He could accept that. He's not the type of person anyone would want to stick around for. He's selfish, can't give a damn, dismissive, quiet when he's not making a quip. More trouble than he's worth, but they forgave his flaws. Stupid? Yes. His choice? No. If it was up to him they would have had a different life without him in their midst. Nothing works like that, and as the adage goes, "life isn't fair." People like Joseph's family are dead and people like Joseph get to keep walking away.

There is a tic in his jaw. Subtle, but he's sure his buddy here can see it because people don't use rifles when they don't have attention to detail. The rifle's a hunter's weapon, and Joseph respects that. It's just better for everyone that their rifles stay where they are, but he grips it tighter for insurance. An eyebrow quirks just a little at being told to take it easy. That's how he's operated for most of his life, so he's used to hearing stop treating this like a game and take this seriously for once. "Not everyone needs a gun." A gust of white when he lets out a breath. "Yeah, sure, you did. If you're staying go on up. No funny business." He sweeps out his arm and steps to the side for the taller man. Joseph doesn't intend on walking in front of him with his back turned. Following him makes it easier to keep an eye out.