[ The nausea Venom feels is twofold: the first, the customary disgust that rises from the pit of his stomach when he realizes what that artifice on this young man's neck means, the same incongruence he felt when small fingers offered him diamonds in return for their lives. It rises like bile in his stomach, and it would have been less prevalent had the words property of not been engraved so clearly in the metal, like insult to injury.
The thought that nothing will change, that the framework of the world will remain constant while the people within them change regimes, is still a heavy weight that settles in his subconscious. His expression twitches, from neutral to blank to questioning. Quiet empathy that fades into the background with militaristic discipline— his feelings have never saved anybody, let alone himself.
So he shelves them.
The second wave of nausea comes from the issue of his memory, the truth of the loss of his eye, which he can neither explain nor remember with any clarity. He wasn't lying when he told Andyr that he had an accident— the one that took his arm, the one that gave him his horn— but his eye? God, who can even be sure anymore?
His brows knit, conflict flitting over his hardened expression. Wide shoulders brace themselves, and only settle when he brings himself back under his tightly-controlled self-restraint. ]
—Not sure if that's an exchange you want to be making.
no subject
The thought that nothing will change, that the framework of the world will remain constant while the people within them change regimes, is still a heavy weight that settles in his subconscious. His expression twitches, from neutral to blank to questioning. Quiet empathy that fades into the background with militaristic discipline— his feelings have never saved anybody, let alone himself.
So he shelves them.
The second wave of nausea comes from the issue of his memory, the truth of the loss of his eye, which he can neither explain nor remember with any clarity. He wasn't lying when he told Andyr that he had an accident— the one that took his arm, the one that gave him his horn— but his eye? God, who can even be sure anymore?
His brows knit, conflict flitting over his hardened expression. Wide shoulders brace themselves, and only settle when he brings himself back under his tightly-controlled self-restraint. ]
—Not sure if that's an exchange you want to be making.