[sodden cloth, legs sprawled out in a shallow riverbed. her eyes widen a little, the pupils dilate, but it's a momentary reaction, and she runs her thumb across the frame calmly.]
[Arabia's attention is drawn to the pictures. The panther. The serpent. There is a third but it is consumed in flame and shows nothing discernible at all. It is the third that he smiles at fondly.]
[ Although sometimes these memories are what keep her going, seeing them exposed on the walls like some sort of freakshow make her blood boil, even if it ends up being drowned by the overwhelming sadness that takes over her soul when she picks up one single photograph, which she though she had lost. Herself, as a kid, holding Tracy's hand. She remembers the way it felt to be safe and protected by her and her fingers tremble a little as the memory comes in full force. She drops her face and sinks to the floor, crossing her arms over her head, crying softly into her knees. Why couldn't it still be like this? ]
[He doesn't look at her pictures, not really. It doesn't matter if she lost them just like he did. He doesn't say anything, or touch her, just sits down on the floor next to her and smokes.]
[There aren't that many pleasant memories to speak of in Amoral's life. Just people he dislikes, and duties. The one that catches his attention, however, is of a child's frame, curled up in the corner of a street, bleeding from the forehead.]
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What is it?
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A close friend of mine.
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A good friend, then?
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Wanna see about getting out of here?
[He hasn't even looked at his own piece of wall. He knows what's there.]
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How charming, Amoral.
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Amoral looks ashamed.]
Cross.
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It's very sweet. Look at how he bleeds.
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