If Evangelisti really wanted them safe and knew what was best for them, he would have stopped the operation before it could start crunching its first mathematical formula. No, there is something more at play here than meager curiosity. Javert feels certain. He skips past a framed photo of Fiddleford with Marco and continues his slow scrutiny of anything remotely mechanical in nature in the room.]
Yet you know few cosmic bodies here function as they do elsewhere, [he begins smoothly, his tone a slow, plodding, even keel.] You forget we reside on a peninsula where the mists belong to a tangible Madame and the oceans are stoppered by a human woman molded into a plug. There is at least one incident of a bestial whale descending from up on high. And you assumed a creature who wandered the stars in his now-meaningless dead life could do the same here? That is a grave error, a serious error. They would be very fortunate if their explosive deaths is the worst of what they'll suffer this month!
But you did not answer what I wanted. So tell me plainly.
[Let us pause for a moment, while Javert straightens his back and slowly pivots to take in the Fourth Priest full in the face.
Throughout Javert's monologue, though his tone remained unwavering and cold, whatever thin fog lingered outside started slipping through the cracks of Marco's home. They danced and they spun, drawn to the Priest like he were a magnet for the seeping damp; they hugged his hemlines, polished his boots. He breathed it in like a living man would heave air, and with it, his baleful speech gained momentum.
Now, in calling Marco out on quailing meekly in his presence, he lays an eerie, lurid red gaze on Marco, testing the waters, reading what sits behind his spectacled eyes. His irises brighten and dim with a palpable power, a promise of extracting the truth from Marco whether he is willing or not.
Is it overkill, when Marco is compliant? Perhaps. But Javert has endured several more deaths and stripped himself of even more layers of trust in anyone remotely connected to the false god. It'll take him a little more effort than, say, a year-or-so ago to judge Marco as genuine.]
Were they looking for an escape from this realm? [A heady pause. Even the swirling, thin veil of mist around him stills. He adds acridly,] I advise you not leave out Elias's hand in this. Don't hide key details from me.
no subject
If Evangelisti really wanted them safe and knew what was best for them, he would have stopped the operation before it could start crunching its first mathematical formula. No, there is something more at play here than meager curiosity. Javert feels certain. He skips past a framed photo of Fiddleford with Marco and continues his slow scrutiny of anything remotely mechanical in nature in the room.]
Yet you know few cosmic bodies here function as they do elsewhere, [he begins smoothly, his tone a slow, plodding, even keel.] You forget we reside on a peninsula where the mists belong to a tangible Madame and the oceans are stoppered by a human woman molded into a plug. There is at least one incident of a bestial whale descending from up on high. And you assumed a creature who wandered the stars in his now-meaningless dead life could do the same here? That is a grave error, a serious error. They would be very fortunate if their explosive deaths is the worst of what they'll suffer this month!
But you did not answer what I wanted. So tell me plainly.
[Let us pause for a moment, while Javert straightens his back and slowly pivots to take in the Fourth Priest full in the face.
Throughout Javert's monologue, though his tone remained unwavering and cold, whatever thin fog lingered outside started slipping through the cracks of Marco's home. They danced and they spun, drawn to the Priest like he were a magnet for the seeping damp; they hugged his hemlines, polished his boots. He breathed it in like a living man would heave air, and with it, his baleful speech gained momentum.
Now, in calling Marco out on quailing meekly in his presence, he lays an eerie, lurid red gaze on Marco, testing the waters, reading what sits behind his spectacled eyes. His irises brighten and dim with a palpable power, a promise of extracting the truth from Marco whether he is willing or not.
Is it overkill, when Marco is compliant? Perhaps. But Javert has endured several more deaths and stripped himself of even more layers of trust in anyone remotely connected to the false god. It'll take him a little more effort than, say, a year-or-so ago to judge Marco as genuine.]
Were they looking for an escape from this realm? [A heady pause. Even the swirling, thin veil of mist around him stills. He adds acridly,] I advise you not leave out Elias's hand in this. Don't hide key details from me.