“but of course, i am fond of anything daring enough to defy me,” morthelme declares this as if it is obvious. his fingertips remain greedily pressed against it’s palm, as if he is seeking the warmth granted by the glove. then death’s touch withdraws from flesh once more. it remains unmarked.
“i have nothing to worry about anyhow,” death sighs, as if content with this blasphemy. his fingers entangle with gloved ones this time, bringing knuckles close to his mouth. a chaste kiss, cold even through material. “gods belong to me, even before their legacies have begun. you are no different.”