[ it’s such a twisted part of him. his baroque, perhaps—or maybe worse than even that, a sane but cruel sensibility for seeing the suffering of people who have hurt him. amos hasn’t even really taken a blow, but dextera knows the torment that having one’s life drained away can bring.
that demand is no surprise. ]
…
[ his expression, oddly, shows no satisfaction. it’s nothing but a cool regard for what needs to be done, and he takes the opportunity he’s created to steal away amos’ sand: it’s enough for one fragment, a single but hefty memory, rather than draining amos for all he’s worth.
behind the cool gaze, however, amos’ accusation still holds weight. a sense of success lurks in his pulse. ]
Thank you. [ —he has the indecency to say, and he even dismisses the monster, his own sand dispersing along with its form. before the knowledge of it goes entirely, he offers this, as if he’s helping. ] You won’t die. You just have to wait.
no subject
that demand is no surprise. ]
…
[ his expression, oddly, shows no satisfaction. it’s nothing but a cool regard for what needs to be done, and he takes the opportunity he’s created to steal away amos’ sand: it’s enough for one fragment, a single but hefty memory, rather than draining amos for all he’s worth.
behind the cool gaze, however, amos’ accusation still holds weight. a sense of success lurks in his pulse. ]
Thank you. [ —he has the indecency to say, and he even dismisses the monster, his own sand dispersing along with its form. before the knowledge of it goes entirely, he offers this, as if he’s helping. ] You won’t die. You just have to wait.