( at least the contagion that has taken hold of the trees which took root in the Meridian and Zenith seats of power has not spread to this particular tree — or, at least, it hasn't progressed to the extent that it now rages throughout their respective city streets. the Tree of Life remains encapsulated within its own bubble of reality, the weather faintly cool and perfectly stable. perhaps it's a relief to see that at least something in kenos remains (at least visibly) unaffected by the slow and steady spread of the Blight, though more and more it seems like that is a relief that will prove to be temporary.
though there isn't much room to do so, makoto shrinks back in his tiny hollow as his discoverer's sudden haste kicks up dirt and mud for a few paces before he trips, just barely catching himself on a nearby root. the demon's face is a pale mask of faux horror, and his voice remains scathing in its dry criticism as he continues, ) Be careful. It's not like you're any good to me injured or out cold.
( there's a desperate fervency to the stranger's movements that gives makoto pause. he doesn't know how to interpret that, or the way that he keeps looking up at him wide-eyed and wild, as if he might dissolve into the humid subterranean air at any second. what was that supposed to mean? it's not like he's of any particular importance — if that was the case, he wouldn't have had to languish in this god-forsaken place for hours (regardless of whether or not it had actually been hours, it felt like hours to him) before he'd been found. he doesn't think he's at any immediate risk of death or dissipation, but, hell, from what precious little he can recall of what had happened prior to this (from his perspective), that might not be the case.
makoto's eyes narrow into a squint, and in the dim light his pale irises are almost luminous where they stand against the murky dark of the sclera. he searches the desperate young man's dirtied face, and he searches through what was available to him in his mind, in his heart. it's not — necessarily that he finds nothing. instead it feels like the terrible pause in-between a breath drawn sharply and whatever vocalization (a laugh, a sigh, a question, a sob, a scream?) it had been intended for.
there's a disconnect. his thoughts and memories full of cotton fog, he has no idea which of those options it should be.
but it should be something. that certainty comes to him with shocking surprise. is it because he is suddenly sure that he knows him, or is it because he's realizing that the only answer for the stranger's excitement is that makoto is someone to him?
he doesn't know. but if it gave the boy more reason to get him out of this place, then he's certainly not going to argue.
makoto's mouth parts with a few feeble chuckles; he struggles up onto one elbow. ) My, the clothes off your back? How very generous.
( the words are smooth, slick with the practiced half-hidden scorn that makoto is so skillful with. but they are beginning to temper with something less sharp, less visceral. curiosity, perhaps. in a somewhat swaying motion, he extends one hand, expectant. )
no subject
though there isn't much room to do so, makoto shrinks back in his tiny hollow as his discoverer's sudden haste kicks up dirt and mud for a few paces before he trips, just barely catching himself on a nearby root. the demon's face is a pale mask of faux horror, and his voice remains scathing in its dry criticism as he continues, ) Be careful. It's not like you're any good to me injured or out cold.
( there's a desperate fervency to the stranger's movements that gives makoto pause. he doesn't know how to interpret that, or the way that he keeps looking up at him wide-eyed and wild, as if he might dissolve into the humid subterranean air at any second. what was that supposed to mean? it's not like he's of any particular importance — if that was the case, he wouldn't have had to languish in this god-forsaken place for hours (regardless of whether or not it had actually been hours, it felt like hours to him) before he'd been found. he doesn't think he's at any immediate risk of death or dissipation, but, hell, from what precious little he can recall of what had happened prior to this (from his perspective), that might not be the case.
makoto's eyes narrow into a squint, and in the dim light his pale irises are almost luminous where they stand against the murky dark of the sclera. he searches the desperate young man's dirtied face, and he searches through what was available to him in his mind, in his heart. it's not — necessarily that he finds nothing. instead it feels like the terrible pause in-between a breath drawn sharply and whatever vocalization (a laugh, a sigh, a question, a sob, a scream?) it had been intended for.
there's a disconnect. his thoughts and memories full of cotton fog, he has no idea which of those options it should be.
but it should be something. that certainty comes to him with shocking surprise. is it because he is suddenly sure that he knows him, or is it because he's realizing that the only answer for the stranger's excitement is that makoto is someone to him?
he doesn't know. but if it gave the boy more reason to get him out of this place, then he's certainly not going to argue.
makoto's mouth parts with a few feeble chuckles; he struggles up onto one elbow. ) My, the clothes off your back? How very generous.
( the words are smooth, slick with the practiced half-hidden scorn that makoto is so skillful with. but they are beginning to temper with something less sharp, less visceral. curiosity, perhaps. in a somewhat swaying motion, he extends one hand, expectant. )