I'd be more likely to burn this place to the ground first.
[ he very well might, if that—that thing comes back. ironically, since parts of it seemed to be entirely made of flame, and yet nothing burned. although he's mostly regained himself, every last nerve he has is on high alert, listening for the sound, watching for the flicker and glow. he keeps thinking: what if he'd dashed through the flames the monster seemed to give off? would he have been as untouched as the rest? or would it have consumed him, too...
mm, nope.
once the knife is planted in the palm of Albel's gauntlet, he doesn't waste any time in switching hands; the knife is flicked over to the right hand, the pillow in the left. it doesn't concern him that Laurent is watching him closely, trying to figure out his left arm, and in some ways he's pointedly invited him to look. and yet he offers no explanation or anything more than an uninterested glance at him and his wound before he plunges the blade into the pillow.
rather than the outer covering, he seems to go for the stuffing. once he's torn the thing open, he pulls it out in wads, gathering the fluff into a large clump that he eventually offers back out—along with the knife, tucked between his thumb and forefinger. ]
Put this over it before you dress it. It'll soak up the blood.
[ the look on his face remains unmoved, but with a little crease between his brows that wasn't there before. don't you even look at him. just take it and shut up. Not A Word, So Help Me. ]
no subject
[ he very well might, if that—that thing comes back. ironically, since parts of it seemed to be entirely made of flame, and yet nothing burned. although he's mostly regained himself, every last nerve he has is on high alert, listening for the sound, watching for the flicker and glow. he keeps thinking: what if he'd dashed through the flames the monster seemed to give off? would he have been as untouched as the rest? or would it have consumed him, too...
mm, nope.
once the knife is planted in the palm of Albel's gauntlet, he doesn't waste any time in switching hands; the knife is flicked over to the right hand, the pillow in the left. it doesn't concern him that Laurent is watching him closely, trying to figure out his left arm, and in some ways he's pointedly invited him to look. and yet he offers no explanation or anything more than an uninterested glance at him and his wound before he plunges the blade into the pillow.
rather than the outer covering, he seems to go for the stuffing. once he's torn the thing open, he pulls it out in wads, gathering the fluff into a large clump that he eventually offers back out—along with the knife, tucked between his thumb and forefinger. ]
Put this over it before you dress it. It'll soak up the blood.
[ the look on his face remains unmoved, but with a little crease between his brows that wasn't there before. don't you even look at him. just take it and shut up. Not A Word, So Help Me. ]