Robin watches them crush this card as close to their chest as they can manage. He feels a pang of sympathy for them, wondering in that abstract, half-aware way that he does, if Phalanx ever gets lonely. With so many of them all crammed into one space, it's probably the opposite--but that doesn't stop the thought from crossing his mind all the same.
"Hm..." He tries to think of a good answer for a moment, tipping his head to the side. Spirits are tricky, and he is a King, not a God. He can predict and theorize the mindset of his subjects as a whole, but ultimately, it is still up to each individual to make their own decisions. This spirit has come to the card through a fortune teller's bidding, and who knows how long it will be until it decides the task is no longer worth the effort.
Without so much as a word of warning, he reaches forward, aiming to touch the back of the card with just a couple of his fingers. The skin of his palm splits open as he does--not gushing or tearing dramatically, but subtly slicing itself open from the inside, the blood held in place by his own mysterious power. The slice is in the shape of a near-perfect circle, with some other lines and strange runes cutting through the inside.
"Not for a while," he says, giving some energy (and a silent prayer) into the spirit currently inhabiting the card. He only needs to touch it for a second before the spell is complete, and his hand starts stitching itself back up again like nothing had happened.
"...So should I just..." Vincent speaks up, now bothered by the smell of fresh blood out of nowhere, "...go...? Because if you two are just going to talk about cryptic shit, I don't need to be here."
no subject
"Hm..." He tries to think of a good answer for a moment, tipping his head to the side. Spirits are tricky, and he is a King, not a God. He can predict and theorize the mindset of his subjects as a whole, but ultimately, it is still up to each individual to make their own decisions. This spirit has come to the card through a fortune teller's bidding, and who knows how long it will be until it decides the task is no longer worth the effort.
Without so much as a word of warning, he reaches forward, aiming to touch the back of the card with just a couple of his fingers. The skin of his palm splits open as he does--not gushing or tearing dramatically, but subtly slicing itself open from the inside, the blood held in place by his own mysterious power. The slice is in the shape of a near-perfect circle, with some other lines and strange runes cutting through the inside.
"Not for a while," he says, giving some energy (and a silent prayer) into the spirit currently inhabiting the card. He only needs to touch it for a second before the spell is complete, and his hand starts stitching itself back up again like nothing had happened.
"...So should I just..." Vincent speaks up, now bothered by the smell of fresh blood out of nowhere, "...go...? Because if you two are just going to talk about cryptic shit, I don't need to be here."