( Isn't it? Ah, but his mouth wears tension like tassels, like bruising. It lingers long and deep before the moment's passed, done, dissolved. He feels unlike himself, an animal cornered, belly to the ground. The hunt isn't done until one man's bled.

Strange, how more than sixteen years ago, he learned to turn weapons on the sect. How he has yet to put them down. He stirs, shifting. )

Gratitude. My hair is settled. ( Humblest of thanks for this fine work. )