"I drain life from my surroundings, should I need to do so," Ekkehardt replies, finishing his soup. "But it seems content with some amount of regular food and the occasional live animal, at least when it's not active."
Still weird, but he's used to it enough that it doesn't really register to him any more.
Avery sits up a little more, setting his empty bowl on the table. "Is that because it ate you or just a quirk of its own?" He tries to sound as neutral as he can, but even so, a little worry seeps through.
Ekkehardt shrugs. "It is what it is," he says, ever reassuring. "But I doubt you'll have to deal with the same symptoms, since we're so different, so you should pay more attention to yourself."
It's a more subtle wall, but it's there all the same. It's something he doesn't particularly want to discuss.
"You miss our little duels that much? I'm surprised." That sharp amusement is back, like it had never left, but the way he laughs, a brief bark, is proof that the request had surprised him too.
"Looking for somewhere to vent your aggression, are you?"
"No," he says, almost too quickly. "You just happen to be the only one to provide a good challenge. You're skilled. Even I can admit that. I'll even stick with magic."
"Oh, is that a compliment, of all things? Very well, I suppose I can indulge you." He likes the praise, though he doesn't want to think about why he'd enjoy praise from someone who murdered him (and the man he'd pledged loyalty to, at that). It should be easy to hate him; easier still to dispose of him.
It isn't. Something stays his hand. They're too alike for him to ignore; it's an almost painful sensation.
"Use whatever you like. It matters little to me." He traces a circle on the table, thoughts drifting. "You'd have to try very hard indeed to kill me again. And it would be a waste of effort, regardless."
"Yes, yes, I know. You're already dead because I killed you. You don't need to remind me. I just want to try something different for once." And, perhaps, to see how or if his magic has changed at all thanks to the thing inside of him.
"Just try not to be too infuriating about it, will you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, is it difficult for you to be reminded? It's not as if I can forget about being dead."
He waves a hand. "Very well. I'll go easy on you. In that regard." He has no intentions of going easy on him in combat, so he might as well relent here.
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Still weird, but he's used to it enough that it doesn't really register to him any more.
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It's a more subtle wall, but it's there all the same. It's something he doesn't particularly want to discuss.
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Sometimes he feels it move inside him. He knows its hungry. It practically whines about it from within. But what is he supposed to do about it?
Maybe there isn't anything at all.
"Hey," he says, tapping a finger against the table. "I want to fight you sometime. Not seriously. Just sparring."
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"Looking for somewhere to vent your aggression, are you?"
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It isn't. Something stays his hand. They're too alike for him to ignore; it's an almost painful sensation.
"Use whatever you like. It matters little to me." He traces a circle on the table, thoughts drifting. "You'd have to try very hard indeed to kill me again. And it would be a waste of effort, regardless."
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"Just try not to be too infuriating about it, will you?"
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"Oh, I'm sorry, is it difficult for you to be reminded? It's not as if I can forget about being dead."
He waves a hand. "Very well. I'll go easy on you. In that regard." He has no intentions of going easy on him in combat, so he might as well relent here.