( the cornerstone of any proper demon’s education is perception. the game that the upper-ranking nobility of hell play with one another is one of masks, misdirection, and mind games—anyone who wants to reach their lofty heights and play competently among them (as to not fall prey to them and their own ambitions) needs to be able to read between the lines, discern through context, cut through lies, read infinitesimal tells, and avoid allowing anyone else to do the same to them. makoto has seen and heard masters of this at play, speaking with such surreptitious circuitousness that it was almost impossible to follow.
having only been in hell for a few months, rather than stretches of decades or even centuries, he knows precious little. his education had been rather rudely interrupted by his being brought here, but even then, he would’ve needed to have had his senses muffled and his mind in a completely other place to miss the stranger’s reaction to him. it actually wasn’t the bit where he whirled on him, teeth bared in a feral snarl—that is the type of thing that makoto would foolishly bristle at and push back against, despite his physical inability to back it up. no, it’s the part right after, where he looks as though he’s seen a ghost. surprise leaps into his throat, making him feel suddenly uncertain; his hand falls from seth’s arm with the immediacy of having been scorched, stung, or shocked.
anubis?)
I-I’m sorry, I… ( he stammers, confidence from a moment ago thoroughly broken—he hadn’t intended to mislead him. he wouldn’t have approached if he knew that he might’ve reminded him of someone which clearly upset him. and—that name. he recognizes it, though many from earth might as well. makoto had once dug through a dozen or so different mythologies, both current and antiquated, searching for how different religions and cultures might have dealt with a person like him. anubis—the ancient egyptian god of the dead. ironically enough, he’d been the one makoto had been most curious about, as he passed judgment on mortal souls. he had weighed their hearts on a scale, against a feather…
makoto hadn’t looked much further after that, certain that the weight of sin in his heart would far outstrip that of a feather.
determinedly, he attempts to regain his composure, mouth pressing into a thin line. if it’s a matter of being mistaken, then— ) …My name is Makoto. I, didn’t mean to startle you.
no subject
having only been in hell for a few months, rather than stretches of decades or even centuries, he knows precious little. his education had been rather rudely interrupted by his being brought here, but even then, he would’ve needed to have had his senses muffled and his mind in a completely other place to miss the stranger’s reaction to him. it actually wasn’t the bit where he whirled on him, teeth bared in a feral snarl—that is the type of thing that makoto would foolishly bristle at and push back against, despite his physical inability to back it up. no, it’s the part right after, where he looks as though he’s seen a ghost. surprise leaps into his throat, making him feel suddenly uncertain; his hand falls from seth’s arm with the immediacy of having been scorched, stung, or shocked.
anubis? )
I-I’m sorry, I… ( he stammers, confidence from a moment ago thoroughly broken—he hadn’t intended to mislead him. he wouldn’t have approached if he knew that he might’ve reminded him of someone which clearly upset him. and—that name. he recognizes it, though many from earth might as well. makoto had once dug through a dozen or so different mythologies, both current and antiquated, searching for how different religions and cultures might have dealt with a person like him. anubis—the ancient egyptian god of the dead. ironically enough, he’d been the one makoto had been most curious about, as he passed judgment on mortal souls. he had weighed their hearts on a scale, against a feather…
makoto hadn’t looked much further after that, certain that the weight of sin in his heart would far outstrip that of a feather.
determinedly, he attempts to regain his composure, mouth pressing into a thin line. if it’s a matter of being mistaken, then— ) …My name is Makoto. I, didn’t mean to startle you.