Had the gunner expected an attack? Something, certainly. It is told in how lithe body tense up as he found himself being clung to. Instinctively, Cerberus is reached for. With its snout breathing cold metallic touch on the silvern’s rib and the gold of my claw tighten on slender shoulder is how he is welcome.
Only with the trembling coursing through smaller form, another act unanticipated by this man, that metallic grip is loosen, if only by a bit. The ex-Turk is still wary after all— a tale recounted in quiet timbre.
He had come alone. No one was with the youth. At the press of the muzzle against his ribs, he gripped him tight again and without that frenzied fury of battle. He wasn’t out for a fight. He simply held on, for lack of any familiar faces in a long time. He’d been running. Desperate and frantic and - by minerva - scared. He looked up carefully, catching his breath while the gunner peered at him with that heartachingly distrustful look.
“Don’t… don’t shoot me. I don’t want to fight. I saw you and I just didn’t think. I wanted—” What? He couldn’t say. But he was drawn. Drawn to a familiar face and bittersweet and cracked memories. “Yes… I’m Kadaj… but I’m alone, I don’t have my brothers anymore…” He winced. “There was a dragon. Over there.” He gestured to the vague area behind him, shrouded with woods and moss. “…And I couldn’t kill it…”
Alone, he appears, for at least as the crimson shrouded man’s sense has allowed himself to observe. Void of another faces with shared cat-liked viridian irises and silken argentine tresses in claret optics’ visage, void of noise saved for the quietude laced in this man’s breathing and the cadence of the silverette’s anxious heart, it is in his clutch, of leather clad fingers curling into crimson fold, reality is feasted upon and clung to as Odysseus would his flotsam.
This man is not his salvation; he is simply all the silvern remnant has …at the moment— a familiar face, even when it is one belong to his aged old enemy. Despite the condition of our background being so, tightened digits’ve never ceased their grip regardless of the mark from my three-headed beast still breathing down his side. Frantic, desperate…scared even. The string of emotions keep him in its rein similarly to the manner crimson shroud remains lost, entwined in his hold.
While tri-barrel isn’t drawn away, it isn’t pressed forward either. Twin pools of vermilion avert, directed away by the direction of leather clad hand. It is in their return to mako hues, quiet tone proceeds. “Dragon…”
"Ah. Must you then?"