[ dextera is able to get a clean, if unexpected, look at amos’ injured hand. he’s largely kept away from anything and everything involving vaeka’s rescue, but with how fresh the wound seems—at least, he certainly didn’t have it the last time they saw each other—dextera has to assume it was the casualty of an encounter with one of his fellow pleroma.
good, he thinks. it’s an unusually malicious thought, but the blame is easy to direct amos’ way. though the hate he holds may be unfair, it’s true in the moment.
he doesn’t even want to use his sword for this. he has it on him, strapped to his back for a moment’s withdrawal, but it’s his hands he relies on. every time he wakes up anew in front of the tower, all he has are his fists and the purification behind them. with amos increasingly faltering, dextera can surely make his mark.
amos’ hand gets close to him, enough that his remaining fingers drag across the front fabric of dextera’s shirt. rather than ducking out of the way, dextera grabs amos’ arm with both of his hands and squeezes. his frail appearance belies his strength, built up over a few months now of working in the docks of godsblood, but it’s not physical strength he’s summoning. it’ll take him some time, but a heat that will soon be searing builds under his palms. there’s no communion to speak of, not explicitly, but in that grip and between their legacies there’s the distinct conveyance of deep, reckless frustration.
after all, he’s aware he’s only able to even try this because amos is affected by a powder dextera can barely estimate the longevity of. ]
no subject
[ dextera is able to get a clean, if unexpected, look at amos’ injured hand. he’s largely kept away from anything and everything involving vaeka’s rescue, but with how fresh the wound seems—at least, he certainly didn’t have it the last time they saw each other—dextera has to assume it was the casualty of an encounter with one of his fellow pleroma.
good, he thinks. it’s an unusually malicious thought, but the blame is easy to direct amos’ way. though the hate he holds may be unfair, it’s true in the moment.
he doesn’t even want to use his sword for this. he has it on him, strapped to his back for a moment’s withdrawal, but it’s his hands he relies on. every time he wakes up anew in front of the tower, all he has are his fists and the purification behind them. with amos increasingly faltering, dextera can surely make his mark.
amos’ hand gets close to him, enough that his remaining fingers drag across the front fabric of dextera’s shirt. rather than ducking out of the way, dextera grabs amos’ arm with both of his hands and squeezes. his frail appearance belies his strength, built up over a few months now of working in the docks of godsblood, but it’s not physical strength he’s summoning. it’ll take him some time, but a heat that will soon be searing builds under his palms. there’s no communion to speak of, not explicitly, but in that grip and between their legacies there’s the distinct conveyance of deep, reckless frustration.
after all, he’s aware he’s only able to even try this because amos is affected by a powder dextera can barely estimate the longevity of. ]