[ for a moment, dextera doesn’t do anything. he’s just surprised, marveling at the feeling of another person’s hand in his, even when they’re both damp and clammy from being ‘reborn’—or killed, dextera can’t say for sure. he squeezes dokja’s fingers without thinking about it, and only then does he remember that they’re doing this for a purpose.
his name. he has to give something. carefully withdrawing his other hand from his scar, he writes each letter slowly until he’s written out ‘dextera,’ and then he looks to dokja’s face as if to ask if that’s acceptable. ]
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[ for a moment, dextera doesn’t do anything. he’s just surprised, marveling at the feeling of another person’s hand in his, even when they’re both damp and clammy from being ‘reborn’—or killed, dextera can’t say for sure. he squeezes dokja’s fingers without thinking about it, and only then does he remember that they’re doing this for a purpose.
his name. he has to give something. carefully withdrawing his other hand from his scar, he writes each letter slowly until he’s written out ‘dextera,’ and then he looks to dokja’s face as if to ask if that’s acceptable. ]