[Mistrust or not, years of conditioning have taught the young men that Raine's tone should not be ignored. All of them falter, drawing back warily but also with confusion, glancing at each other -- at Lloyd, Kratos notices with some degree of pride, but only out of the corner of his eyes. He has not glanced away from his son once.
[It's just as well he has certain physicalities turned off, or he might well fall into a mess right here and now.
[As it is, he isn't sure what his face looks like; and he doesn't dare move. But after a second Lloyd draws back to pull his swords away, and his emotions are written large across his face -- suspicion, hope, mingled fear and uncertainty and a special kind of awe.]
Dad?
[Kratos exhales slowly, and only then shifts to sheathe his own sword for the first time that day. He steps forward, once and slowly, as if Lloyd will break for the trees if Kratos moves too suddenly. Lloyd doesn't. After another step Kratos grips his shoulders to look down at him; when he speaks, his voice is rough, and yes, there is a blazing kind of joy in his face.]
Lloyd. My son.
[The rest of the young men, he has no attention for -- but their faces register their shock, their uncertainty, and the shift, in some of them, to pull away from the rest, as if Lloyd is suddenly someone they cannot know. None of them attack again, however -- yet. The angels are watching.]
no subject
[It's just as well he has certain physicalities turned off, or he might well fall into a mess right here and now.
[As it is, he isn't sure what his face looks like; and he doesn't dare move. But after a second Lloyd draws back to pull his swords away, and his emotions are written large across his face -- suspicion, hope, mingled fear and uncertainty and a special kind of awe.]
Dad?
[Kratos exhales slowly, and only then shifts to sheathe his own sword for the first time that day. He steps forward, once and slowly, as if Lloyd will break for the trees if Kratos moves too suddenly. Lloyd doesn't. After another step Kratos grips his shoulders to look down at him; when he speaks, his voice is rough, and yes, there is a blazing kind of joy in his face.]
Lloyd. My son.
[The rest of the young men, he has no attention for -- but their faces register their shock, their uncertainty, and the shift, in some of them, to pull away from the rest, as if Lloyd is suddenly someone they cannot know. None of them attack again, however -- yet. The angels are watching.]