A snort comes in response, his words bitter “𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦?”
But a dismissive wave of hand follows, he’s not one to entertain idle chit–chat.
“think of me what you please, I couldn’t care less. If the dog is hungry, let him eat. Understood?”
Cue a grimace to be made, nose scrunching with disapproval.
“filthy mutt, your snout is all bloody, you’re getting me dirty.”
Yet he makes no attempt to shove him off and, what’s worse, even leans over to pet him.
Whoa. Talk about gap moe.
The dog looks up from the bag, maw covered in blood and flesh as beady eyes stare right at the human.
He makes his way toward him, nudging at his leg with his head.
He could never get over the obscenity of the scene, something so sacrilegious as was his dagger cradled by gentle, loving hands; hands known for healing only now embracing death with disturbing, bone–chilling serenity.
He hesitates, but nods.