Best get straight to point about all of it, I suppose. I'd say I'm grateful for them not beating around the bush, but I'd be even more grateful if they hadn't marked us up in the first place and sent us on our way with a pat on the head.

[ or taken me at all. there's a sigh that follows that, heavy as she nods herself. he's not going to fool himself into thinking this is hell. hell is sticky black tar coating his limbs, filling his mouth, finding his soul, wrapping around it, suffocating it. when he breathes, smoke turns to sludge.

here, there's none of that. no orthax crawling in the back of his mind, dug in deep like a scar. ]

What's the point of all this? Separating others this and that... there's not even a pattern. I've seen countless other people with these marks. They hardly have anything in common at least from basic observation.

[ he holds a beat then, perhaps having caught himself rambling. ] And where are my manners... Percival de Rolo III. And you?