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&. yasuo’s own countenance may as well be deemed maddening, facial lineaments contorted beyond the habitual stoicism, donning something more fierce. hatred’s flames burn brightly, deep within his chest, pure adrenaline prepared to guide his every act forward,
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ire oozing from every damn vocable. were yasuo to call his anger hatred, it would be but a euphemism for the true sentiments that roar in his heart.
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( it’s odd — — baring himself in such a way that would leave even smidgens of his heart exposed, that tattered thing, beating &. unyielding in spite of the horrid years it’s endured. the mere notion of being seen as a flawed man, of equating him to those that )
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( does not find himself speaking immediately; instead, a hand rises slowly, remaining at his own side, the want to extend it there . . . &. yet, it is never realized. it falls, idly swinging at his side ‘fore coming to a halt. )
we’ll see.
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