[ There's a moment where he just... Stares at him. The weight of both of his eyes on Vergilius is enough to feel like that gravitational tug intensifies. It's heavy with implication. He doesn't even need to ask -- was it only me who did this? -- they both know Silco hadn't shoved his own blood down his throat.

Would he have, though? It's possible, he cannot say that it was something he'd considered, the moment a haze of blood rushing in his ears, hunger, and annoyance for once again being called weak.

His lips twitched, whether it was a smile or a grimace, it wasn't clear. ]

Did you think that was just for the fun of it? [ He moves from the doorframe, deeper in the dim room. ] It was to prove a point.

[ What point was that? Why, that he was worthy of respect, that he was a threat. That he wasn't just a pathetic blood starved fiend or a weak man withering behind muscle. No, he wanted Vergilius to understand that, before he thought him a fool. Perhaps it had all been foolish -- much of the encounter was -- but...

Well. He didn't think on it with distaste. Vergilius is right, he always thirsts for more, more respect, more power, more -- ]

So no, we aren't done, yet. I don't think we've finished that pact, have we?

[ Instinctively, his fingers reach for his throat, but he paused, halfway there. ] I certainly still don't fully understand you. Isn't that what you wanted?