[ A living weapon, all for Silco to scrape thin fingers against, for him to mar and muck up as he so chooses. A weapon could stop him at any time, but Vergilius lets him do it, seeks him out like this, and Silco's fingers trail against the marks he made, as if he can hurt him more by pressing down on them. Maybe he can, but maybe he's used to the pain. They're both from such similar places, where pain is something one simply gets used to.

His good eye closed, a light shiver down his back. ]

Mm, most of the time, yes. [ He's right. Most people here don't understand it. Not like Zaunites did, or people from the City did. ] Even if we manage to slip free of the mistakes...

[ His fingers trail against his skin, scraping, scraping. He knows he has made them. Has Vergilius? The type that leave that stain that can never be washed out? That eye fixates on him, burning from a pitch surface. ] They leave their mark. Don't they?