( He recalls still what it'd been like, to sink into that black mire. He had told himself— he was ready, and he could remember himself, and he would not lose himself to frenzy.

He had repeated to himself the names of those he knew: Adelis, Briar, Roche, Sasha; Adelis, Briar, Roche, Sasha; Adelis, Briar, Roche... and with each iteration, a name would fade, beneath the visceral sensation of his claws through flesh, heels through stone. He had held his composure dear, and yet, like an addict, he came to give his heart to violence. )

... You remind me of a moth to a flame. Would that I had your conviction.

( And he understands that, most of all. How a flame enraptures, and how it consumes.

The upturned palm, the offer, gives him pause. His demeanor in some regard is like an animal sizing up the person offering, testing the waters; with Tartaglia, he's not quite sure what to expect, save the obvious. But he doesn't expect either of them to extract weapons here, as much as his instinct and training tells him to meet every overture with expectation of aggression. )

I think I'd be much worse off, I think, with you.

( Yet, he puts out his hand, as if offering it to take. Pushing others away is a habit he's broken into himself; he doesn't come closer. Still, he broaches the distance. )

Would you make it worth my while?