CLOSED TO @ofcastora. I DON’T KNOW THE DATE BUT I SIMPLY DO NOT CARE.
the truth is singular, as cold and as clean as the blade of a new knife: he does not know pain unless it burns him straight through, carves a hole in his chest that is as visible as it is internal. only then does he allow himself a taste of grief, a glimpse of agony.
he wipes at his mouth, and catches a glimpse of blood as he pulls his hand away. a hint of a smile tugs at his lips, appreciation for castora’s left hook glints in his eye, and armand offers a brisk nod of approval. “good. do that again five times in a row.” he adjusts the position of his feet, puts up his arms and nods once more, welcoming another attempt. “now.”