( they're not so easily unearthed, these infestations of divinity and devilry. they might have been pulled from the two of them, but their roots still wind in-between their bones, keeping them a breath removed from what they might have once been. the demon known as "M" is so far removed from the high school boy that he had once been that he can't even contemplate such a return; it's almost as though that young man really did die at the hands of the demon he had summoned, and it had only been through a series of misfortunes that M came to take his place.
when it comes to all the questions that makoto could needle and pry at this stranger with, asking for his name is one of the easiest. not that it wasn't important — a demon from his version of hell learned in their first few days the huge power that a name could hold — but it was at least usually easy to answer. he watches the man's forehead crease, and one of his brows arches in response. at first he writes it off that it was just troublesome to write out instead of speak aloud, but it's in observing the storm cloud that settles over his expression as he scratches it into the dirt that makoto begins to get the feeling that's not the full truth.
interesting.)
That was supposed to be the easiest question I ask you, you know.
( he doesn't push him any more than that, but he does let him know he'd noticed, slipping it into his pocket for later puzzling.
he tilts his head so he can read the name. he tests it out, the syllables lilting on his stolen tongue: ) Dextera-san...
( he acknowledges the reflection of the question by reaching out and jabbing a forefinger into the dirt, slashing four sharp, connecting lines through the middle of where he had signed his name, forming a single letter. when he finishes, he looks up to fix dextera in a sharp-toothed smile. )
no subject
when it comes to all the questions that makoto could needle and pry at this stranger with, asking for his name is one of the easiest. not that it wasn't important — a demon from his version of hell learned in their first few days the huge power that a name could hold — but it was at least usually easy to answer. he watches the man's forehead crease, and one of his brows arches in response. at first he writes it off that it was just troublesome to write out instead of speak aloud, but it's in observing the storm cloud that settles over his expression as he scratches it into the dirt that makoto begins to get the feeling that's not the full truth.
interesting. )
That was supposed to be the easiest question I ask you, you know.
( he doesn't push him any more than that, but he does let him know he'd noticed, slipping it into his pocket for later puzzling.
he tilts his head so he can read the name. he tests it out, the syllables lilting on his stolen tongue: ) Dextera-san...
( he acknowledges the reflection of the question by reaching out and jabbing a forefinger into the dirt, slashing four sharp, connecting lines through the middle of where he had signed his name, forming a single letter. when he finishes, he looks up to fix dextera in a sharp-toothed smile. )
You may call me M.