( well sure, he could have figured that much. still, he takes it exaggeratedly slowly, stepping carefully, refusing to even get close to anything that he might smudge out with his shoes; when he's finally situated in the center, he realizes that this might have been a fool's mistake--why didn't he ask about what esikko was going to do? and now here he is, standing in the middle of it, and for all he knows? this could be some fucked up spell directed at him.
so he sits, with a wary glance at esikko, peering at him from beyond his hood. at least he sits down next to him, which he thinks bodes well for the fact that they're in the middle of all this, here. sitting criss-cross, he dips an elbow down against one of his thighs, tipping his chin into his palm so that he can watch him work.
bizarre, really. it's not like the little lunatic hadn't told them plenty of stories of playing with blood, the occasional sad little quip from her childhood that she quickly covered up so as not to reveal too much. those had been the moments he had related to her best: that feeling of being all wrong in your own skin, that feeling of being unloved in your own skin. a disappointment. a reject. is that the reason why esikko's father didn't want him doing all this, too?
still, his eyes open a little wider at the mention. )
...This place has a soul? So it's some living thing?
( he doesn't know if he believes that, or not. even if it's some kind of special fortress, some kind of special prison, there's no reason why it would have a soul. still, he lifts his gaze, watching the movements, watching esikko, watching the blood. )
Does that mean you can find the way out? Looking at all this.
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so he sits, with a wary glance at esikko, peering at him from beyond his hood. at least he sits down next to him, which he thinks bodes well for the fact that they're in the middle of all this, here. sitting criss-cross, he dips an elbow down against one of his thighs, tipping his chin into his palm so that he can watch him work.
bizarre, really. it's not like the little lunatic hadn't told them plenty of stories of playing with blood, the occasional sad little quip from her childhood that she quickly covered up so as not to reveal too much. those had been the moments he had related to her best: that feeling of being all wrong in your own skin, that feeling of being unloved in your own skin. a disappointment. a reject. is that the reason why esikko's father didn't want him doing all this, too?
still, his eyes open a little wider at the mention. )
...This place has a soul? So it's some living thing?
( he doesn't know if he believes that, or not. even if it's some kind of special fortress, some kind of special prison, there's no reason why it would have a soul. still, he lifts his gaze, watching the movements, watching esikko, watching the blood. )
Does that mean you can find the way out? Looking at all this.