[ unbeknownst to most of the passengers, the flight did just dip by a fraction of a degree, but it’s enough for mr. high-strung to take it at full offense. he settles onto the floor, limbs pulling in until he’s made a loaf-like shape of himself, staring at taryon’s feet like the man’s bootsoles could offer some helpful life advice.
no subject
they don’t. ]
Nnnnho. No. Flying. Hate.
[ surely that paints some kind of picture. ]