NATE
stop, what the hell are you talking about? ha
get my pretty name outta your mouth
get my pretty name outta your mouth
Nate is happy to stay quiet, to simply be a prop for Wessex. He even manages a smile when she gestures towards him, wiggling his brows at the crowd and offering waves to anyone he recognizes. It’s not true ease though, a miasma of stress and paranoia hanging over him. At least until Arialla’s voice rings out. If there’s one thing that will always get his attention, it’s a good argument.
Oh, that’s the game they were playing was it? Commit atrocities in life, follow blindly, just to guarantee a place in an afterlife? Nate chews his tongue for as long as he can, stopping just before it’s a shredded fluidy pulp in his mouth. “An afterlife is worth destroying people now? It’s worth ripping apart families?”
It’s the playthings comment that raises his hackles though, Nate baring his teeth while Pemota sinks closer to him. He has sense enough still to wait for Wessex to finish, but only barely. “And last I checked the Voice hasn’t sent any of us out on random assaults.” The words boom from his chest, indignation dragging his accent up over the words. “I know from experience the opposite isn’t true.” He doesn’t need to gesture up at the scar bisecting his face, sure that most native torchers remember it as just one of his many low moments, but he does anyway, making aure to straighten up, to square his shoulders first.
Oh, that’s the game they were playing was it? Commit atrocities in life, follow blindly, just to guarantee a place in an afterlife? Nate chews his tongue for as long as he can, stopping just before it’s a shredded fluidy pulp in his mouth. “An afterlife is worth destroying people now? It’s worth ripping apart families?”
It’s the playthings comment that raises his hackles though, Nate baring his teeth while Pemota sinks closer to him. He has sense enough still to wait for Wessex to finish, but only barely. “And last I checked the Voice hasn’t sent any of us out on random assaults.” The words boom from his chest, indignation dragging his accent up over the words. “I know from experience the opposite isn’t true.” He doesn’t need to gesture up at the scar bisecting his face, sure that most native torchers remember it as just one of his many low moments, but he does anyway, making aure to straighten up, to square his shoulders first.
we are not the same with or without
don't talk 'bout me like how you might know how i feel
don't talk 'bout me like how you might know how i feel
