[The day is clear and bright, but the crisp bite to the air wills him to keep his cloak clasped against both the wind and the sun. It's been long enough that he's nearly forgotten what the velvety warmth of it on his skin feels like, and likely would until the forest thawed in spring.
If there's any gentler emotion felt while making his approach and standing closer to Hector than he has in a long time, his eyes hold none of it. His face - sharper around the edges, bruise-like shadows darkening his eyelids - only speaks to what self-imposed isolation has done to him on a physical level. His gaze drifts over Hector as if his presence is little more than an afterthought before he turns his attention toward the plant creature as it rustles and writhes to life, towering over his own.]
No. [Crossing his arms.] Not yet. Should it lack resistance, I will know this now.
[Better any of Hector's devils than offering his own flesh in the name of alchemy, which he had been prepared to do when better rested.
A few of the mock-angel's long tentacles uncoil, reaching for the corpseweed. Slowly, thoughtfully, like how a person might feel their way through the dark to touch someone lying next to them. It probes a leaf and the length of a spiny vine, then the head of the corpseweed itself, curious. Isaac looks to his devil's face for a flicker of shock or pain, but its expression is calm, still, even as one of its tendrils touch a barb and retract, curling back into itself.]
...Immune, it would seem. [He drawls, flatly, after a time.]
no subject
If there's any gentler emotion felt while making his approach and standing closer to Hector than he has in a long time, his eyes hold none of it. His face - sharper around the edges, bruise-like shadows darkening his eyelids - only speaks to what self-imposed isolation has done to him on a physical level. His gaze drifts over Hector as if his presence is little more than an afterthought before he turns his attention toward the plant creature as it rustles and writhes to life, towering over his own.]
No. [Crossing his arms.] Not yet. Should it lack resistance, I will know this now.
[Better any of Hector's devils than offering his own flesh in the name of alchemy, which he had been prepared to do when better rested.
A few of the mock-angel's long tentacles uncoil, reaching for the corpseweed. Slowly, thoughtfully, like how a person might feel their way through the dark to touch someone lying next to them. It probes a leaf and the length of a spiny vine, then the head of the corpseweed itself, curious. Isaac looks to his devil's face for a flicker of shock or pain, but its expression is calm, still, even as one of its tendrils touch a barb and retract, curling back into itself.]
...Immune, it would seem. [He drawls, flatly, after a time.]