[ teleute siphons the pain of that betrayal, a creator that made you and deemed it your fate to die for his convenience before you had even barely lived,

and the man in the chair, indeed, doesn't fall down in that darkness.
he feels the shape of what's been cut into his soul, feels confusion, panic-- without pain--

and his blue mask, riddled with holes, falls off. and cracks down the middle. ]


[ at the fore of the room, the golden mask on Charon's face cracks down the middle, too, and falls off. ]