Deepwood Weald Willst du nur Früchte von ihr, die kann auch die Sterbliche zeugen;

The boy had seen his fair share of fighting. Though there was no blood on his hands, he was no stranger to the violent source. He knew where the knife was hidden, its dark location, and did not shudder at thought. He found the violence but mildly amusing, its power no more than seeing who could scream the loudest. There was a thrill in the torture, but he could not say the fight was what had him begging on his knees for more. He thought that somehow, Abaddon would be above all that, like he was. His brother had proven him wrong.

His only reaction to the mindless display of fangs and assumed power was the raise of his brows, a slight retreat to avoid getting caught in the tumble. He paced 'round, observing quietly. There was no encouragement, no hint he might enjoy what he was seeing — there was only the knowledge that he was a witness, young mind soaking up what was around him. Frequent displays of this would most certainly normalize it for him, but for now, all he felt was disappointment and a disturbance within his soul.