[ The Darkling draws his lips tight, looking down at the other, dark eyes glittering. It's the fifth or sixth time in the span of two whole days that people have spoken to him like this. It's not a matter of manners--the Darkling is no stranger to speaking with commoners, with being a commoner--it's the words that make absolutely no sense to him that annoy the absolute fuck out of him. He forces a smile, slight, pained. ]
I don't know what any of that means.
[ And oh, how he fucking hates it, admitting that he's lost. ]
no subject
I don't know what any of that means.
[ And oh, how he fucking hates it, admitting that he's lost. ]