About what nature of beast lurks beneath your skin, of course.
[ He says it like it should be so obvious, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Silco respected power, he always had, but the manner of the type of power was always in question. When pushed into a corner, how did the beast react? When confronted with betrayal, or bloodshed, did the beast shirk away and hide in a corner, or seek out those with more power, or did they lash out, and excise the problem personally?
Silco was not a foolish man, but around such things, he so often lost his head in pursuit of power. He had no freedom to help buy for the people here, or product to peddle. He needed something else to pay for loyalty, because he has nothing else to supply. He wants to see this beast out of its cage β ideally with his hand at the leash β because there's something in the man that makes him hold back. Show restraint.
What is that that makes him pull back? Why is it that he hadn't crushed his head like a too-ripe fruit plucked from the refuse? What does he want out of this?
They'd sat on and talked about ending a world once; an opportunity Silco had held in his hands, and tried to cultivate for two years, fighting everything and everyone to ensure it happened, maddened by the one little thing he could protect, the only thing that mattered. His devotion had flayed his very soul, put it up for bargain for gods and demons, and now he was free, and he had even lost the only thing he was devoted to. Preserving that which was dead, because they weren't.
What does Vergilius see, when he looked at him? His unblinking stare kept on him, and he placed the knife back, never looking away. ]
I don't live in fear, Vergilius. Not of you, not of anything. I've met death so many times we are old friends now, but I always seem to slip away.
[ But he lifted those thin fingers, as if deciding where to act. ]
You want me to act, do you? [ He doesn't stand, but he doesn't have to. His fingers find that space on his thigh, where he knife had plunged in, and he pushes against it, fingers aimed to hurt. Even still, he didn't look away, like he wanted to see the pain on his face. ]
no subject
[ He says it like it should be so obvious, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Silco respected power, he always had, but the manner of the type of power was always in question. When pushed into a corner, how did the beast react? When confronted with betrayal, or bloodshed, did the beast shirk away and hide in a corner, or seek out those with more power, or did they lash out, and excise the problem personally?
Silco was not a foolish man, but around such things, he so often lost his head in pursuit of power. He had no freedom to help buy for the people here, or product to peddle. He needed something else to pay for loyalty, because he has nothing else to supply. He wants to see this beast out of its cage β ideally with his hand at the leash β because there's something in the man that makes him hold back. Show restraint.
What is that that makes him pull back? Why is it that he hadn't crushed his head like a too-ripe fruit plucked from the refuse? What does he want out of this?
They'd sat on and talked about ending a world once; an opportunity Silco had held in his hands, and tried to cultivate for two years, fighting everything and everyone to ensure it happened, maddened by the one little thing he could protect, the only thing that mattered. His devotion had flayed his very soul, put it up for bargain for gods and demons, and now he was free, and he had even lost the only thing he was devoted to. Preserving that which was dead, because they weren't.
What does Vergilius see, when he looked at him? His unblinking stare kept on him, and he placed the knife back, never looking away. ]
I don't live in fear, Vergilius. Not of you, not of anything. I've met death so many times we are old friends now, but I always seem to slip away.
[ But he lifted those thin fingers, as if deciding where to act. ]
You want me to act, do you? [ He doesn't stand, but he doesn't have to. His fingers find that space on his thigh, where he knife had plunged in, and he pushes against it, fingers aimed to hurt. Even still, he didn't look away, like he wanted to see the pain on his face. ]