[ If Silco were a lesser man (ie: more compassionate) he would have flinched, for flesh leaves a bloody mess, and some flicked off, and spattered in his face. He still doesn't flinch. Silco has watched men die before, and this one is only different in that there is an odd... reverence to it. Weight, or something holy, something he doesn't really understand but is starting to want to, because the presence that Tezca levies is too great and terrible for Silco to turn away from it.
His language is power, after all, the hunger for it, the pursuit of it, the dogged, unending clawing forward toward progress.
Watching this man willingly give up his life for Tezca is unreal to him. Odd, but welcome.
He blinked his single eye but did not even remove a kerchief to mop it off of his face.
He watches the heart beat in his hand, once, twice, thrice. The squelch of blood, the soft thump, thump, thump that fills the space between them. Silco holds his breath and does not speak.
Even a godless man like him can sense the moment. ]
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His language is power, after all, the hunger for it, the pursuit of it, the dogged, unending clawing forward toward progress.
Watching this man willingly give up his life for Tezca is unreal to him. Odd, but welcome.
He blinked his single eye but did not even remove a kerchief to mop it off of his face.
He watches the heart beat in his hand, once, twice, thrice. The squelch of blood, the soft thump, thump, thump that fills the space between them. Silco holds his breath and does not speak.
Even a godless man like him can sense the moment. ]