Vlast watches, silent, unblinking. He's either not been updated on what counts as staring and is hence rude or simply doesn't care and discards it like most etiquette.
Vlast can stare like a cat.
Finally his gaze goes to his own palm and he lets the anchor flare again. He can feel it, around the edges, where it will try to grow and spread and the shape of how it will hurt if he relents in his attempt to consume it.
Losing an arm is survivable, of course, but he knows what is to awake in a body missing parts of yourself, to feel the phantom echo of lost limbs trying to move while your mind struggles to map its new reality.
He cannot articulate why, but he doesn't want to see Benedict go through that.
When the anchor dies down, leaving nothing but small, crystalline motes hanging in the air, Vlast exhales.
"...Is not ideal, is it?" he finishes the other man's sentence. "There may be other ways, if we can get our hands on whatever set them into existence."
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Vlast can stare like a cat.
Finally his gaze goes to his own palm and he lets the anchor flare again. He can feel it, around the edges, where it will try to grow and spread and the shape of how it will hurt if he relents in his attempt to consume it.
Losing an arm is survivable, of course, but he knows what is to awake in a body missing parts of yourself, to feel the phantom echo of lost limbs trying to move while your mind struggles to map its new reality.
He cannot articulate why, but he doesn't want to see Benedict go through that.
When the anchor dies down, leaving nothing but small, crystalline motes hanging in the air, Vlast exhales.
"...Is not ideal, is it?" he finishes the other man's sentence. "There may be other ways, if we can get our hands on whatever set them into existence."