( decency, yes. there's not much of that left in the demon, but he can at the very least sympathize with someone thrust into the same dire situation that he was — that all Aions were, though he would hope that the young woman might come to see things the way that he and the Kenoma do. and if she doesn't, well... there are ways to bend the mind into being more pliant to it. because that's the other thing that he buys with his conscientiousness: the tiniest bit of leeway that subtle manipulation might take advantage of, allowing him to spin the context of this scenario to his advantage. she did, after all, presently rely on him for all the information she could glean about what was going on. so long as they were not rudely interrupted (always a looming threat, during these times of newcomers), he had time and space to work in the manner that he preferred.
the coat, just like very nearly everything makoto was wearing, was of achamoth make. there is little to glean from the fabric and fur but that it is well-worn but clean — but even if there was anything of hell to gather from him, it would break stereotypes. the hell that he had seen was idyllic rolling hills dotted with expensive manses, contrasted harshly with the crowds and stench of the slums, pushed off into unwanted corners. the striation of class was at the backbone of demon society; in every way possible it defined it, and though it had been alien at first to navigate, it had surprised him how human they all seemed at the end of the day. demons seek ease and comfort and the satisfaction of their desires, all the same as the mortals whose souls formed and comprised the currency they used to fund their lifestyles. it's startling how reality could bend and fold expectation; beings as outlandish to him as demons of hell were startling just as often as they were disappointingly mundane.
ah, but that's just how things are, isn't it?
"they" do, do they? ) And what an illustrative name it is.
( permafrost, indeed.
she hands him a name, a designation, a rallying cry for her people. it's so fascinating, isn't it? the kaleidoscope of meaning that can be applied to something so simple and yet so intimate as one's name? he thinks, given what she says, that she will not like the one that he gives to her in kind. )
They call me M, and so you can as well.
( name and hierarchy, to a demon like him, are inseparable. a lower-ranked demon couldn't force the syllables of their superior's name past their lips without shattering into pieces; one of the only true deaths a demon can face. when makoto had first arrived here, he'd wrenched some sort of ill-gained feeling of superiority from his fellows by only giving out his initial and jealously keeping his name to himself. by this point, it's habit; there are fewer than five here who know it.
he extends a hand to help her up. ) Though, really, you shouldn't feel as though you owe me anything at all. ( he says this thinking she might very well end up feeling like she owes him retribution for obfuscating the truth of her situation — he would turn away a reward if it might potentially spare him that.) Come with me. I want to show you something.
no subject
the coat, just like very nearly everything makoto was wearing, was of achamoth make. there is little to glean from the fabric and fur but that it is well-worn but clean — but even if there was anything of hell to gather from him, it would break stereotypes. the hell that he had seen was idyllic rolling hills dotted with expensive manses, contrasted harshly with the crowds and stench of the slums, pushed off into unwanted corners. the striation of class was at the backbone of demon society; in every way possible it defined it, and though it had been alien at first to navigate, it had surprised him how human they all seemed at the end of the day. demons seek ease and comfort and the satisfaction of their desires, all the same as the mortals whose souls formed and comprised the currency they used to fund their lifestyles. it's startling how reality could bend and fold expectation; beings as outlandish to him as demons of hell were startling just as often as they were disappointingly mundane.
ah, but that's just how things are, isn't it?
"they" do, do they? ) And what an illustrative name it is.
( permafrost, indeed.
she hands him a name, a designation, a rallying cry for her people. it's so fascinating, isn't it? the kaleidoscope of meaning that can be applied to something so simple and yet so intimate as one's name? he thinks, given what she says, that she will not like the one that he gives to her in kind. )
They call me M, and so you can as well.
( name and hierarchy, to a demon like him, are inseparable. a lower-ranked demon couldn't force the syllables of their superior's name past their lips without shattering into pieces; one of the only true deaths a demon can face. when makoto had first arrived here, he'd wrenched some sort of ill-gained feeling of superiority from his fellows by only giving out his initial and jealously keeping his name to himself. by this point, it's habit; there are fewer than five here who know it.
he extends a hand to help her up. ) Though, really, you shouldn't feel as though you owe me anything at all. ( he says this thinking she might very well end up feeling like she owes him retribution for obfuscating the truth of her situation — he would turn away a reward if it might potentially spare him that. ) Come with me. I want to show you something.