(300) they totally do
art by crypsis
The fact she not only acknowledged, but even admitted her fault, it pleased him. Mortal things were simple, and he preferred to think of them in simple terms. His aunt was one such puzzle, much like his mother, that needed to be broken down, examined, understood. These were, of course, in broad terms. He cared little for nuances or details. If his mind produced a visible display, it might have been in emboldened text and thick, dark lines. Anatole was simple in the way his mother had been simple—though he was not quite well off enough to pose as something he was not. Thus, his true nature was bared and unabashed; he did not even think to hide what he was.
Something clicked, strangely, against the cogs of his mind. Slave. The term was foreign to him, and he cocked his head at it. His lips formed the word but he did not speak it, unsure of what it meant. Unexposed to all but the wild parts of the world, he did not know what the meaning of the term was. “They killed one of their own?” He echoed dumbly, unsure if he understood what she was telling him.
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