there is always hope
Ronin's arrival was preceded by the growl of an engine. On time? Maybe. A little late? More likely. Given his career, that was perhaps a little embarrassing, but ah well, it was a party. Climbing off the motocycle and heading inside, the helmet tucked under one arm and a six pack of craft beer in the other (fight him, I dare you), he headed up to where, apparently, the party was starting.
"Rex, Bastien," he called through the door in greeting, tipping Remi a wink at realising he had arrived first. Ronin had at least dressed somewhat appropriately; his jeans had barely any holes in and his shirt was clean and pressed (even if it was covered, currently, by the leather biker jacket he was wearing). "My hands are a little full, else I'd say hi properly." He bounced his eyebrows playfully at Bastien; hugging and cheek kissing were to be expected, he imagined.
Ronin is an ex-military biker. He races motorcycles for a living now.
"Rex, Bastien," he called through the door in greeting, tipping Remi a wink at realising he had arrived first. Ronin had at least dressed somewhat appropriately; his jeans had barely any holes in and his shirt was clean and pressed (even if it was covered, currently, by the leather biker jacket he was wearing). "My hands are a little full, else I'd say hi properly." He bounced his eyebrows playfully at Bastien; hugging and cheek kissing were to be expected, he imagined.
Ronin is an ex-military biker. He races motorcycles for a living now.
