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Summary
“Speaking of which,” Nightmare prompts, the finger of his free hand tapping at the table. The sort of tempted, eager gesture you’d expect from a patient animal awaiting its prey. “What befalls you as of late, my friend?”
The Violinist’s head gingerly cocks at the mere query. To his speculation, the idea of the manor, the ebb and flow of their system, truly hadn’t changed much since their last chat. But he well knew by now that nearly each and every action of Nightmare’s had some sort of rhyme. Which, by the by, was something he had come to appreciate, in the twisted sense of it. His values had a tendency to follow intellect.
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