He’s about to clear his throat when Belsio finally speaks. How does he run a business like that? He must not get many automail orders over the phone, or else his niece makes the calls for him, Russell figures. Two and a half years, and the man remains as bad at talking on the phone as ever: Russell half-wonders if Belsio nodded and forgot Russell can’t hear it. Russell leans his hip into the wall by the payphone, absently twirling the cord around a gloved finger as he waits for Belsio’s response. “What the hell did you two do?”Ī soft, high voice answered, quaking with fear-and echoing, too, as if the little boy Belsio knew well wasn’t physically inside. His heart caught in his throat, his stomach contracting, Belsio struggled to speak.
#AVADON THE BLACK FORTRESS DOES STEALING MATTER HOW TO#
Dark, wet blood stained his clothes and streaked his skin: the strips of cloth at his empty shoulder and knee sockets did little to stem its flow, makeshift bandages by a nine-year-old who didn’t know how to tie a tourniquet. Then, the boy cradled in those shaking arms, his face a deathly white beneath a shock of blond hair. The sight in the doorway would never quite leave him: first the armor, tall and bronze, its harsh lines contrasting sharply with the trembling in its shoulders. Only when the door flew open in a shower of splinters did Belsio whip around to look. The torrent easily drowned out the sound of footsteps, of an armored shoulder banging against the front door. In February, Xenotime is usually lucky to get a drizzle tonight it fell unforgivingly, pounding on rooftops and awnings with all the wrath of a god angered. Stats: Published: Updated: Words: 73546 Chapters: 11/? Comments: 38 Kudos: 88 Bookmarks: 24 Hits: 2863
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