[His accent is pretty, sounding both native and earnest, but even though the object of his most recent obsession is standing right there, he can't take his eyes off the woman who looks and acts more like a half-pulled trigger that isn't always predictable, down to the millimeter.
Though this is meeting, he doesn't reach for her hand. He'd rather his own didn't meet the same fate as the metal one, with far more bleeding than "Annabel's" lips and teeth have supplied. He doesn't think he's in a position to ask John for yet another new hand.]
Who's afraid?
[Unreadable dark grey eyes meet Alecto's fierce, golden ones. The decision not to blink is both deliberate and surprisingly difficult; it's like staring at the Sun, in a way, strained and a bit painful.
Loving women who are not all there usually does go that way. He pities John, in these moments, however happy the Emperor might seem superficially.]
I'm Lazarus, like John said. Lazarus Sauveterre.
[The name is both fake and literal to the point of silliness. Back from the dead, a safe shore. He wonders if she realizes, if she was educated before her mind unraveled, automatically studying her mannerisms in case he ever needs to avoid a fatal giveaway again.
He rattles the basket he holds, the parts it contains clacking against each other dully and indistinctly.]
If you like these, I have a few spares. Some hands, and I'm pretty sure there's a glass eye or three.
[He bites the inside of his cheek. Keeping a straight face usually goes without saying, for him, but he's been struck by a vision of Alecto crunching down on them like jawbreakers, making a hopeless mess of shattered teeth and glass shards for John to mend, and he struggles to discern whether it is very funny or very pitiful to him.]
no subject
[His accent is pretty, sounding both native and earnest, but even though the object of his most recent obsession is standing right there, he can't take his eyes off the woman who looks and acts more like a half-pulled trigger that isn't always predictable, down to the millimeter.
Though this is meeting, he doesn't reach for her hand. He'd rather his own didn't meet the same fate as the metal one, with far more bleeding than "Annabel's" lips and teeth have supplied. He doesn't think he's in a position to ask John for yet another new hand.]
Who's afraid?
[Unreadable dark grey eyes meet Alecto's fierce, golden ones. The decision not to blink is both deliberate and surprisingly difficult; it's like staring at the Sun, in a way, strained and a bit painful.
Loving women who are not all there usually does go that way. He pities John, in these moments, however happy the Emperor might seem superficially.]
I'm Lazarus, like John said. Lazarus Sauveterre.
[The name is both fake and literal to the point of silliness. Back from the dead, a safe shore. He wonders if she realizes, if she was educated before her mind unraveled, automatically studying her mannerisms in case he ever needs to avoid a fatal giveaway again.
He rattles the basket he holds, the parts it contains clacking against each other dully and indistinctly.]
If you like these, I have a few spares. Some hands, and I'm pretty sure there's a glass eye or three.
[He bites the inside of his cheek. Keeping a straight face usually goes without saying, for him, but he's been struck by a vision of Alecto crunching down on them like jawbreakers, making a hopeless mess of shattered teeth and glass shards for John to mend, and he struggles to discern whether it is very funny or very pitiful to him.]