WC: 462. Sorry I took so long to reply.
Itzal glanced at her, his expression was blank, he then looked away at the sky, sighing softly and rolling his shoulders. He sat up and looked at the fire again, then he looked at his arm and noticed a scar he had forgotten he had. He reached a hand up to rub it, tracing it and trying to remember how he had gotten it. He couldn't remember, he had so many that now he just accepted that there are a lot of them he would not always know the history of. He sighed and dropped his hand, then looked over at Axelle at her words. It took him a second to realize she did not mean rubbing his scar, but meant throwing the knife at the tree. That conclusion was proven when she gestured to the knife in its pouch. He nodded and looked down at his arm, counting and tracing the scars with his eyes. He wondered how many he had inflicted on himself. He remembered right before he had lost complete control, hurting himself at times, cause he felt insane, mad. He shook his head to stop his thoughts.
He closed his eyes then looked up at Axelle. He smiled at her words, though she was looking down so she would not see it. He looked at her with a new light. She noticed, she knew a lot more then she let on. He smiled at that, looking her over curiously, but his face remained expressionless. He did not look at her like she was crazy. He looked at her like she was interesting. He then looked away from her, just barely hearing her question, but he caught it, and his body tensed. His eyes flashed to her face then away as he let his muscles relax. He did not answer her question right away. He looked away, down at himself. He looked, but did not see. He was in his head. He had heard voices, that time, it was not like when he had become a cold blooded killer, it was not like when he had become a monster. It was worse, in a way. He had been lost, he had been truly crazy, and he did not want to go back there. He shivered softly, he knew that he could always go back to either of those times. And sometimes he did not know which one was worse. The voices, or the killer. He looked up at her, his eyes hard, a wall up, over the pain. "I..use to. I don't know if I still do. Sometimes I wonder if I do, sometimes I might, and I don't even realize it. But..." He trailed off, trying to think, and then he closed his eyes and turned away.
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