Their claws itch at the thought. They don't want to write. They don't want--anything, but perhaps to turn back and Shriek their fury. That won't be productive, and won't make them seem the Knight, no matter that it is them. Their rage. Their affront.
They continue on, through the Grounds, past Xero's grave, on and on until they realize they've halted in front of the empty Tram station, not absorbing anything on the way.
no subject
Their claws itch at the thought. They don't want to write. They don't want--anything, but perhaps to turn back and Shriek their fury. That won't be productive, and won't make them seem the Knight, no matter that it is them. Their rage. Their affront.
They continue on, through the Grounds, past Xero's grave, on and on until they realize they've halted in front of the empty Tram station, not absorbing anything on the way.