[ the words he says and the way he speaks are unsettlingly familiar. dextera is reminded of the archangel, how this stranger smoothly assures him that he doesn’t need to speak and posits his hatred of god in the same breath. it’s neither good nor bad, dextera reasons, but he’s aware of the patterns he’s likely to fall into. listening, accepting.
still weak from emergence, dextera has lost a lot of value. what’s left in him is someone silently inclined to follow the guidance of others, even if that ends up taking them all to open ribs on a slab of stone. ]
…
[ or, losing their souls.
dextera briefly closes his eyes, surprisingly peaceful at the implication of their future; when he’s able to hide the constant nervous darting of his gaze, he looks a little more put together. his hand tightens over his heart then drops back into his lap. although it’s now been days since waking up, he can still remember the dream that welcomed him to this world and the sense of renewal that followed.
the slow answer that comes is revealed in the form of a lingering look; he lifts his head to look first at the soldiers in question, then at the white robes like a uniform they’ve been donned with. their souls, he thinks, are more metaphorical.
he presses his hands together like a loose prayer, a suggestion of devotion. ]
no subject
still weak from emergence, dextera has lost a lot of value. what’s left in him is someone silently inclined to follow the guidance of others, even if that ends up taking them all to open ribs on a slab of stone. ]
…
[ or, losing their souls.
dextera briefly closes his eyes, surprisingly peaceful at the implication of their future; when he’s able to hide the constant nervous darting of his gaze, he looks a little more put together. his hand tightens over his heart then drops back into his lap. although it’s now been days since waking up, he can still remember the dream that welcomed him to this world and the sense of renewal that followed.
the slow answer that comes is revealed in the form of a lingering look; he lifts his head to look first at the soldiers in question, then at the white robes like a uniform they’ve been donned with. their souls, he thinks, are more metaphorical.
he presses his hands together like a loose prayer, a suggestion of devotion. ]