[his brow twitches, eyes narrowing. not entirely at her, but at himself to poke and prod at his memory. he's not bleeding so much that it's annoying, trails of blood are barely reaching the edge of his wrist. resisting the urge to lick it from his hand, he dabs it against his pant leg before taking the knife from her.]
Joan of Lestonnac?
[he isn't worried about hurting her, wasn't worried to begin with. she secured safety from his whims by listening to instruction and keeping true to her word. the cut won't scar; he returns the favor. he's assuming he can use the hand she's offered the knife to him with. he holds the knife in an interesting way, close to the end of the blade like a pencil for more control. he cuts along the side of her wrist, stopping close to the knuckle of her thumb. it's a clean, near-perfect straight line of red.]
no subject
Joan of Lestonnac?
[he isn't worried about hurting her, wasn't worried to begin with. she secured safety from his whims by listening to instruction and keeping true to her word. the cut won't scar; he returns the favor. he's assuming he can use the hand she's offered the knife to him with. he holds the knife in an interesting way, close to the end of the blade like a pencil for more control. he cuts along the side of her wrist, stopping close to the knuckle of her thumb. it's a clean, near-perfect straight line of red.]