#closingacts

—dazzle, to twoie :-) (@closingacts)

oh, how their heart swells at those uttered words. the poor lost soul, created by the hands of fickle mortals and cursed to feel gloom above all else, feels happy after they've shown him the spawn's grace.

"Praise be, my friend!"

their smile is one of shared joy as soft hands (so soft, for someone who always wields a dagger, who clutches it tight like it's their lifeline) gently squeeze the twins'.

—razzle, :) (@closingacts)

their smile falters slightly at the word creepy, and there is a sort of sharpness that hangs in the air after razzle's accusation, both in the silence and the way they cast a side-long look at him. but it is hard to be mad at one who simply had no chance to know better, nor the sting that could come from such a word choice.

but, regardless, they are not obsessed. they know what it is to be obsessed--and they had been obsessed for a time once, when faith was all they could fall back on--but that is hardly the term they'd use for themself now. faithful, and happy to share such a thing with their comrades, perhaps, but...

— @closingacts

there is none of that gentle smile that dazzle had become familiar seeing; there are just dim eyes swiftly averted and a breath--swiftly drawn--hissing through their teeth. perhaps there is no rage in his words yet, but that tone (a different time, a different voice... yet such a similar tone) still makes them tremble.

in a feeble attempt to still the quake, nails dig into the skin of their arms.

"This is... it is not straying from Him, nor the path laid out for me." quiet. desperate, as if trying to convince themself, too. "I still serve; you know that as well as I. But duty demanded that I protect, and..."

a shuddering little breath.

"I realize now that I care more for the lives around us, fellow followers or not, than I am to securing another offering. And, if it is to see my fr..."

they choke on the word, then clear their throat.

"...if it is to see my comrades in suffering a little more safe, then may They forgive me for not being so devoted in worship. It was lonely when I had given Him all I had, and I... I cannot bear it anymore. Not like this. I plead you find pity in your heart for my weakness."

and may the spawn forgive them for every transgression, every speck of doubt now blooming into something that almost tastes like defiance. it feels so wrong to harbor such feelings, even those seeded long ago. but... if the spawn had blessed them still at their weakest, then perhaps they already were forgiven for such things.

to say the same of he who they've shown the glory of the spawn to, though... he is practically their student in faith. seeming abandonment would indeed sting deep.

they know the feeling well enough.

so they smile--a half-hearted thing seeped in warmth nonetheless.