[where is his knife? hidden in his clothes. it's been long-cleaned of any blood, stripped down and scrubbed and put back together again, but he wishes it still had vileblood contaminants on it, for the wound that he fantasizes about putting on the man. perhaps an onlooker wouldn't even suspect such thoughts from him, as he blandly looks at the person before him.]
No thank you. [his tone is frostier than the coldest, windiest mountain.]
no subject
No thank you. [his tone is frostier than the coldest, windiest mountain.]
I wont play that role.