( it's very likely that others might have wilted or squirmed underneath the almost uncharacteristic intensity that's found its way into the priest's icy gaze, but makoto meets it with level certainty, unwavering and unblinking. despite what he had recently perpetrated in this city, he is no fighter, but before coming here he had sharpened his wit and silvered his tongue to do battle the way that immortal demons did. to subvert and unsettle and confound your opponents, you have to be multiple steps ahead or at the very least give the extremely convincing impression that you did. he shows no sign of faltering even as abel does, his gaze falling to his sleeve as he worries at a loose thread.
at first, makoto lets silence speak for him.
and it persists, even at the so-called accusation and his entreaty for an explanation, though there is some small alchemical change to his expression. the careful veneer of assumed impassivity ripples and creases at its edges, dubious at first and then darkly cynical. )
Can't you?
( unfortunately, getting to the heart of the matter will have to wait a moment, because it's now that the bartender has detached himself from his position to take their orders for drinks. considering the layout of the bar, this doesn't seem to be the usual way things operate, but... perhaps he is acting out of cautious deference, not wanting any trouble cast his way. as soon as he asks, the dark expression disappears makoto's face, replaced in the same instant with a bright and genial smile. he orders a local specialty — clear liquor flavored slightly sweet by a type of fruit they are known for — and then looks to abel expectantly until he similarly gives his order. they had come here to share a drink, after all. he's not about to get too entrenched in their discussion without having at least ordered one.
once the bartender leaves to fill the order, the demon's expression slowly resumes its previous configuration, like a curtain slowly falling upon the stage at the conclusion of the first act.
he leans forward, elbows and wrists resting upon the scarred wood of the table, his fingers interlacing loosely. ) You arrived shortly after I did it, Abel. I never tried to obfuscate this from you or anyone else. ( his voice is smooth and liquid, just as chimerical and insidious as the black ichor that had been forced down their throats in the throne room all those months ago. ) Is there really anything I can tell you now that would make it easier for you to accept? Like... if I said I was possessed of an overwhelming sense of duty or justice, or if I said that he was already in such a sorry and miserable state that I took pity on him and decided simply to free him from his torment... Would that change what you think about it? ( a beat, and he tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side, his strange eyes growing sharper. ) Would it change how any of your allies think about it?
no subject
at first, makoto lets silence speak for him.
and it persists, even at the so-called accusation and his entreaty for an explanation, though there is some small alchemical change to his expression. the careful veneer of assumed impassivity ripples and creases at its edges, dubious at first and then darkly cynical. )
Can't you?
( unfortunately, getting to the heart of the matter will have to wait a moment, because it's now that the bartender has detached himself from his position to take their orders for drinks. considering the layout of the bar, this doesn't seem to be the usual way things operate, but... perhaps he is acting out of cautious deference, not wanting any trouble cast his way. as soon as he asks, the dark expression disappears makoto's face, replaced in the same instant with a bright and genial smile. he orders a local specialty — clear liquor flavored slightly sweet by a type of fruit they are known for — and then looks to abel expectantly until he similarly gives his order. they had come here to share a drink, after all. he's not about to get too entrenched in their discussion without having at least ordered one.
once the bartender leaves to fill the order, the demon's expression slowly resumes its previous configuration, like a curtain slowly falling upon the stage at the conclusion of the first act.
he leans forward, elbows and wrists resting upon the scarred wood of the table, his fingers interlacing loosely. ) You arrived shortly after I did it, Abel. I never tried to obfuscate this from you or anyone else. ( his voice is smooth and liquid, just as chimerical and insidious as the black ichor that had been forced down their throats in the throne room all those months ago. ) Is there really anything I can tell you now that would make it easier for you to accept? Like... if I said I was possessed of an overwhelming sense of duty or justice, or if I said that he was already in such a sorry and miserable state that I took pity on him and decided simply to free him from his torment... Would that change what you think about it? ( a beat, and he tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side, his strange eyes growing sharper. ) Would it change how any of your allies think about it?