[ There's a reciprocation of the sizing up, as unsubtle as it is necessary between two individuals who are in a faction-split world. Amos is built like a warrior from Douman's world, the capacity of violence etched into his physique in muscle and the stack of his spine. Practically-cropped hair, masculine.

(Maybe Douman should've chimed in on the Zenith roll call, but his kneejerk aversion to Communion'd kept him from it; next time, perhaps.) ]

I suppose the wrong answer would inspire your hands around my neck.

[ The delicate hourglass sits just above his clavicle, the sand within it a mixture of charcoal, crimson, and flecks of gold. Douman imagines it, the feeling of strong fingers leaving circle-shaped indents against his throat.

Might be fun. Hands folded politely in front of himself, Douman cants his head. ]

Hm! But there's no need for deceptionー especially not when the lie would be so trite. This humble monk has extended his loyalty to Zenith, and the lady of the House.

[ """Loyalty""". He delivers that last statement with distant amusement in lieu of sincerity. ]

And you? Are you prone to homesickness, sir? [ Sigh, Meridians. ]