both body and mind are interrupted by the sudden collision of another form, jolting worms from his disassociative state as he's tumbled to the ground like a rag doll. "hell," a wheeze crushed from winded form, scrabbling against the earth (or perhaps the other form) for a stable hold. it occurs to him he has not heard his voice aloud for some time. it is rough but it fills him with a sense of identity he'd nearly forgot he had.
worms clings to the ground, fur puffed up in comic defense against whatever onslaught has been unleashed on him. "are y'an angel?" the wolfdog asks, dazed, wondering if his attack could smell the wish for death on him and sought to grant it. and if not, what purpose did it serve to go after him, a bag of bones and fur?
the confused bundle of limbs that menanced him sprouts not angel wings but a wolf's head. they seperate, worms scrabbling to his feet with a tired grunt in time to hear the foreign phrase flung his way. the words are lyric and lilting and blend together, absolute gibberish wasted on his fluffed ears. "i don't speak angel," he tells whatever skyborn lupine creature has set its sights on him.
worms stretches out like a giacometti sculpture, his lean body twisting into it. oof. "my name's worms." he says, not knowing still whether or not she'll understand him what with the beautiful-weird tongue she was speaking in a moment ago. critically he scans her, deciding once and for all that she's not an angel, just a foreign-tongued wolf girl with ragged silver fur (as if he's one to judge, ha). well, fuck, if she's not here to kill him, then what's the point?
she holds his name in her mouth like some fragile shaking thing, his body trembling in the snow, and oh, it has been long since another spoke with him. a not-angel named rheia, a not-angel who might not speak his language. figures the first lovely creature he'd run across is neither here to kill him or to converse with him -- even if this is a type of communication, he has to admit.
"i was hopin'," the wretched wolfdog says with the casual air of one discussing the weather, "you were comin' to kill me dead." she probably won't understand him anyway; their language barrier makes it feel easier to be loose with his tongue. a little of the rust comes off his voice the more he talks. her question warrants a sideways glance and a wry, slow smile. home? "ain't got any home," worms says with a shake of the head, following her frantic glances his own. nothing but snow and wasted time around them, but hell, he hasn't got anything to lose, passing the time with her.
so she understood after all, and oh, the vehemence with which she denies! it is a cruelty to him, if not to her, but he does not move to challenge her fleeing form. worms huffs a sigh, watching her form retreat. perhaps death will visit him another way.
he keeps moving.