( were this a human that had summoned him to earth, stricken to desperation to have one last heart's desire fulfilled before his life was snuffed out once and for all, makoto would think that he was close enough to the edge that one stiff breeze would reduce him to a shower of gold dust.
and what gold it might have been! his demon's senses might be dulled and addled now, but he's still good enough at reading both mortals and demons alike to sense a huge burden of guilt resting upon those shoulders, bowing them as if it were a physical weight — the pains and tribulations of life comprise the currency that demon's trade in, transmogrified as they were into precious metal, and those humans that sink to the lowest depths always pay out the most.
not that makoto really cares for that sort of thing. gold had only been useful in tempting the greed of demons for his own aims; here, it meant nothing to him at all.
he looks at dextera with an interest that is more pure than predatory for once, thinking it refreshing that this one, for once, isn't obviously panicked in the face of... perhaps having his soul reaped for the benefit of some foreign God. it's all conjecture, but the fear is real enough when the future is so perfectly obscured. he takes note of his gaze once his eyes open once more: the soldiers, the clothes they had been given, the clasping of his hands together, as if in prayer.
makoto is silent for a moment, pensive in a way that seems genuine rather than leading or mocking, for once. )
Maybe so.
( isn't that supposed to be the weight of a soul? to be glorified unto God or claimed for the selfish purposes of demons?
he could press further, of course, but he feels as though he's gotten a decent sense of this one, and without him having said a single word. but there is one more thing that seems paramount to ask: )
What's your name? ( he reaches out to the neutral ground between them, pressing the pad of one forefinger into the soft earth. ) Can you write it?
no subject
and what gold it might have been! his demon's senses might be dulled and addled now, but he's still good enough at reading both mortals and demons alike to sense a huge burden of guilt resting upon those shoulders, bowing them as if it were a physical weight — the pains and tribulations of life comprise the currency that demon's trade in, transmogrified as they were into precious metal, and those humans that sink to the lowest depths always pay out the most.
not that makoto really cares for that sort of thing. gold had only been useful in tempting the greed of demons for his own aims; here, it meant nothing to him at all.
he looks at dextera with an interest that is more pure than predatory for once, thinking it refreshing that this one, for once, isn't obviously panicked in the face of... perhaps having his soul reaped for the benefit of some foreign God. it's all conjecture, but the fear is real enough when the future is so perfectly obscured. he takes note of his gaze once his eyes open once more: the soldiers, the clothes they had been given, the clasping of his hands together, as if in prayer.
makoto is silent for a moment, pensive in a way that seems genuine rather than leading or mocking, for once. )
Maybe so.
( isn't that supposed to be the weight of a soul? to be glorified unto God or claimed for the selfish purposes of demons?
he could press further, of course, but he feels as though he's gotten a decent sense of this one, and without him having said a single word. but there is one more thing that seems paramount to ask: )
What's your name? ( he reaches out to the neutral ground between them, pressing the pad of one forefinger into the soft earth. ) Can you write it?