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Summary
"… I see the way you avert your gaze when I look your way, Priest- I feel it branding my flesh when I turn my back."
"Don’t flatter yourself, Sylvian rodent," he hissed, eyes gleaming from sunken sockets. "I have devoted my very being to the art of blood magic- to the art of destruction itself. You doubt my composure? My will? I will not let myself be defiled by your like."
—
Or, Enki lets himself be defiled by your like in the name of not dying a slow, terrible death.
