With a thwack the rock glances off Karkat's horn and he stumbles. It's a sharp, sudden pain, like hitting an elbow but radiating down into his skull, and he hisses sharply. No swear, no shout: he'd like to, but fuck like to when it felt too direct to be an accident. Hell, even if something did fall, even if some Gamemaker just flipped a switch to pelt the alien with a rock, the risk is enough that he can't play it off. He gets his sickle up in front of him, other arm up to guard as he puts the shades back straight.
His first instinct is find the danger and get safe. It's untrollish, but it's one that's saved him before: a listening ear, a watchful eye, and feet quick enough to move when he needs to. But the thing is, those times he wasn't trying to win, not like this. He can feel his blood beating up in a rush already. He made promises, didn't he? Wrote things in letters, talked up to sponsors, to reporters, to whoever might take influence or who might carry good opinion for him. What's he going to do if he doesn't live up to it?
A hard swallow does nothing to force down his doubts, but yelling comes too natural for him to have difficulty shouting out.
"Hey, taint reek! What kind of cowardly pustule fights by throwing rocks they can't even aim right?" He doesn't know where they were aiming, honestly, but he prays (inasmuch as a faithless kid ever would) that his assailant will take the bait still. "Why don't you haul your pathetic husk out here and face me like a real tribute?"
His nerves are lit up with a threatening panic in his chest. You're a troll, he tells himself on repeat. You were made for this. He tries to believe it as he scans, searching for sudden movement, or wherever his presumed attacker has slipped off to.
sorry for the wait on this! last week tossed a bunch of stress at me
His first instinct is find the danger and get safe. It's untrollish, but it's one that's saved him before: a listening ear, a watchful eye, and feet quick enough to move when he needs to. But the thing is, those times he wasn't trying to win, not like this. He can feel his blood beating up in a rush already. He made promises, didn't he? Wrote things in letters, talked up to sponsors, to reporters, to whoever might take influence or who might carry good opinion for him. What's he going to do if he doesn't live up to it?
A hard swallow does nothing to force down his doubts, but yelling comes too natural for him to have difficulty shouting out.
"Hey, taint reek! What kind of cowardly pustule fights by throwing rocks they can't even aim right?" He doesn't know where they were aiming, honestly, but he prays (inasmuch as a faithless kid ever would) that his assailant will take the bait still. "Why don't you haul your pathetic husk out here and face me like a real tribute?"
His nerves are lit up with a threatening panic in his chest. You're a troll, he tells himself on repeat. You were made for this. He tries to believe it as he scans, searching for sudden movement, or wherever his presumed attacker has slipped off to.