[Fool. He thinks the word alone in isolation, letting it knot itself somewhere in the forefront of his mind— but there’s a catching snarl that rises in his own throat in unison, even as he lunges hard and harsh into that tangle of shadows and tattered limbs: twin blades cutting in a flurrying half-circle about the man left prone and bloodied across cold streets.
In someone else there might be mercy. Pity for such a sight, even as their pursuers scatter (however briefly).
In Gabranth, there's only anger, and it makes itself known when he snaps:]
You risk yourself for naught, you tempt death and detraction and for what— ?
no subject
In someone else there might be mercy. Pity for such a sight, even as their pursuers scatter (however briefly).
In Gabranth, there's only anger, and it makes itself known when he snaps:]
You risk yourself for naught, you tempt death and detraction and for what— ?