( well, there's one upside to all this feathery business: it's really difficult to tell the gooseflesh her touch gives him from the rest of him. that's just how his flesh is already, ha ha. bumpy in places, oddly textured. scaly in rough in some places, and where some of the feathers look like they should be soft and fluffy down, there's a dangerous, spiny sort of sharpness to the edges. not to mention how much in disarray his feathers are in general. he clearly doesn't maintain or groom them. if anything, he's yanking them out when they bother him. there are patches around his shoulders where they've been torn bald and bloody, covered in scabs. it itches a lot there, sometimes.

julian's head cants to the side, but he doesn't push. last thing he wants is to listen to blame herself for her piece of shit son, anyway. they all wish they'd killed him sooner, to be sure. or done something else differently. or both. instead, he looks away entirely, relaxed in her purposeful hands. relaxed-ish, at least. malak catches his eye, and when he lifts his other hand, he lights from the pole of morga's spear to roost on the inner curve of his hand with a sound like a clucking tongue. )

He doesn't forgive, or forget. And I can't kill him. I can't fight him at all, in fact. Believe me, I've tried. And tried... and tried, and tried, and tried. No, the only thing for me to do is... surrender. And if that isn't enough, then... well, it can't get any worse, can it? I'm still alive, technically. That must mean I've got something left to barter with.