Phantom Hollow For 180 seconds...oh shit look at the time

They were a year apart in age, but it was more than that that created a stark difference between Megara's two sons. They were on two different ends of the spectrum of manhood — Moath was solid, a venerable rock of muscle, all brute force, and anger. Malcanthet was nimble, slender, effeminate in both body and behavior (thanks to being raised around two sisters, no doubt). But that was again one of the milder differences between them. Moath lacked everything that made a man a man; well really, what made a person a person. As far as Malcanthet could tell Moath lacked a soul. He was unthinking, uncaring, singularly focused on killing those who were not of his blood — a vessel of Sithis more than any other Melonii. 

And even though Malcanthet was of his blood, the courtesan could not help but feel terror as he sensed his brother's presence and finally laid eyes on him for the first time in years. Hello brother, Malcanthet smiled, rerouting the nervousness and fear in his body into that singular expression. He wasn't sure if it was best for him to feign such. He had the feeling that Moath would know either way.