Sing-song mockery.
Close now, little fingers like gleaming bloodless alabaster curled through the sandy-russet chain-links of his prison.
Chin perched playfully on a long cross-bar in the manner of a mannequin that had simply uncorked its head and placed it thoughtlessly upon a shelf.
A grin as sweet and warm as freshly turned grave-soil, and then it’s gone again.
Lost to the Deeps.
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