#uHELP this is a message from my fist is so fucnking funny

[beholdenning]

Denning is content to be put to work. It is, too, comprehensible work: Rebuilding is vital, after all. One's base and foundation must be solid to weather hardship, and home and shelter are some of the most vital of a mortal's foundations. It is easy work to grasp and settle into, rewarding to do efficiently, rhythmic and logical. The noise settles into their frame, an ambient buzz that drives them onwards.

Still, Marquess Ostia's presence is a nagging blip in their periphery. It is the kind of distraction they have learned to ignore, especially in the past months where they have been among many with power, with strength of spirit; Though, shutting something out when it is actively addressing you is both difficult and 'impolite'. The metronome rhythm of their hammer stutters, then ceases, leaving the sound of the young Marquess' own tools to fill what they had left vacant.

There is a long pause where they simply stare at him. They have no active quarrel with him, despite the memory of the encounter at the Ethereal Ball remaining fresh in their mind. He, in turn, makes no move to attack them this time, though they have nothing on their form that would make them resist. A truce, tenuous perhaps, but a truce nonetheless.

"Mnnnnn," A hum to the negative in their 'own' voice, a sticky sound accompanied by a shake of their head. They take his sentences in their head, anatomise them, reconstruct them, rip them apart and stitch them back together.

"ˈnevə, prɪˈtendɪŋ." The morph parrots in part, the mirror of Hector's voice choppy, uneven, imperfect. A pause, before their hammer lifts, draws back again and continues putting down nails in a perfectly spaced line.

"aɪ, help." Denning adds, presumably helpfully.

dread and valor .