[ There's nothing quite like that sound, that of flesh neatly parting to a blade, sickening to hear. By all rights Desmond should have responded swiftly, seized Alastair by the wrists, driven a knee into his gut and relieved him of his dagger, likely with a shout to the tune of What the fuck is your problem?!, but he doesn't move. Doesn't even blink an eye. He continues to chuckle, as if at an offhand joke, while blood wells up in his hand, spilling in warm, red rivulets between his fingers, collecting in fat droplets along his knuckles. ]
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