[Liem looks at her without judgement or pity as she asks for his blood. He doesn't know why she needs it, or how long she's had to endure this dependence, or whether her condition can be cured. All those are questions for another time, when they have the luxury of discussing such matters at leisure. For now, he simply focuses on the problem in front of him, and in addressing it adequately.]
I'm sorry about the taste.
[He apologizes preemptively as he strips the leather glove from one hand and begins folding back each layer of sleeve with quick, efficient motions. The pale forearm he bares is decorated with a motley of bite scars in various states of freshness—almost all of them perfect pairs of fang marks, most near-invisible against his white skin, but several a much starker bruise-grey. He's had ample opportunity to learn the strange, bitter taste of his own blood.
When the layers of cloth are pulled back to his elbow, he slides the long dagger from the sheath at his hip. He takes a short, steadying breath. And with a soundless, flinching motion, he slices the blade straight across the veins on the inside of his forearm.]
cw: self-harm, blood
I'm sorry about the taste.
[He apologizes preemptively as he strips the leather glove from one hand and begins folding back each layer of sleeve with quick, efficient motions. The pale forearm he bares is decorated with a motley of bite scars in various states of freshness—almost all of them perfect pairs of fang marks, most near-invisible against his white skin, but several a much starker bruise-grey. He's had ample opportunity to learn the strange, bitter taste of his own blood.
When the layers of cloth are pulled back to his elbow, he slides the long dagger from the sheath at his hip. He takes a short, steadying breath. And with a soundless, flinching motion, he slices the blade straight across the veins on the inside of his forearm.]