[ Sold, donated, turned into something hungry and hollowed out, Armand knows that starvation. He has grown used to it, grown accustomed to the ways his body has been shaped by it, feverishness whittled down to a thing of long bones and sharp edges. Eternally ravenous. He enjoys the thought of the hunt, the snare, her fragile bones breaking in his teeth.
He'll eat her under a cloth like an ortolan, in wretched joy. ]
I would not hunt prey that is not worth having. But I get the feeling you do not fear to be caught as much as you wish you did, little bird. Tell me, have you been thinking about our encounter as much as I have?
no subject
He'll eat her under a cloth like an ortolan, in wretched joy. ]
I would not hunt prey that is not worth having. But I get the feeling you do not fear to be caught as much as you wish you did, little bird. Tell me, have you been thinking about our encounter as much as I have?