you speak of war as if it's a game. — for modern day klaus maybe.
FIXING A SMIRK ON HIS FACE , he quirks an eyebrow at the man. His father , for which the title will never quite belong. Regardless of what either of them wish. ❝ Opposing teams , a winner and a loser — is that not what games are ? ❞ he quips. ❝ Did the rules of such a thing change in the last millennia ? ❞ He would not let this man attempt to rattle him , to feel guilt for what has always been a main aspect of his existence. Ansel has not seen what he has seen , has not lived what he has lived. Even with his little voyeuristic window from the afterlife.
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