The wet, bubbling quality of this breath, of the words Bertalan offers when prompted—
None of John's reaction reaches his expression. Can dead eyes parse enough to take offense? To glean that something is wrong?
His head tips only just, slight enough that he might glance upwards when Flint speaks.
"One more, after this," John murmurs, as he looks back to the task at hand. "I can hold him here that much longer."
Already there is the sensation of Bertalan slipping from his grasp, like grains of sand rushing through his fingers. The yawning, inescapable pressure of the cosmos only increases in counterpoint to it, observation narrowing down as John leans closer to the Bertalan's bloodied body and says quietly, coaxingly, "Tell me about Little Calimshan. Tell me about Oasis.
no subject
None of John's reaction reaches his expression. Can dead eyes parse enough to take offense? To glean that something is wrong?
His head tips only just, slight enough that he might glance upwards when Flint speaks.
"One more, after this," John murmurs, as he looks back to the task at hand. "I can hold him here that much longer."
Already there is the sensation of Bertalan slipping from his grasp, like grains of sand rushing through his fingers. The yawning, inescapable pressure of the cosmos only increases in counterpoint to it, observation narrowing down as John leans closer to the Bertalan's bloodied body and says quietly, coaxingly, "Tell me about Little Calimshan. Tell me about Oasis.