Firefly Glen Briar

What a waste. Like a farmer surveying the season's harvest smothered by dust, he slinks up with a sour and disgruntled expression. Wasteland, he corrects himself, nose wrinkling at his slip-up. 

What's someone like you doing in a place like this? He asks now with a slanted grin, aware that such an appraisal (unasked for, intrusive, boldness for the sake of boldness) was likely to inspire irritation. Perhaps even hoping that it would. Whatever the case, his smile didn't exactly scream innocent.

He lets out a slow whistle at the sight of the trees lying prone and in pieces, destroyed by a violence which would normally stir uneasiness - something like a close cousin to vertigo - in his gut. It made no more sense to him than the mountainous ridges of a boot's imprint would to a scuttling ant.