"No Foreigner records," Bakura amended, partly in clarification and partly in thoughtful musing. What he wanted to know was if Evandau, who oversaw all those brought to the turtle, had any viable information.
"As for an announcement like that..." He didn't outright dismiss it, for it was something he'd considered. Most waking hours had been spent turning the battle over in his mind, the way he did with every duel, every right; it was just the way Bakura was. He never failed the same way more than once. And while certainly there was a part of it that was pride, there was also a careful consideration of the potential benefits verses costs.
"Not just yet, I think. Eager as I might be for a rematch," said with a razor smile and no trace of sarcasm, "I think with everything that's going on right now, there's still a chance they may make a reappearance on his own."
Even as he spoke he was removing the layer of linens, stained on their undersides with blood, to reveal the five deep furrows that marred his torso. The claws on the armor had been sharp -- too sharp, he thought darkly, to have been any normal metal -- and they'd bitten deep. Even if he hadn't drowned, he'd have lost so much blood that he would have succumbed within minutes anyway. The gashes had been stitched though, neatly and evenly and not in a way that suggested he'd done it himself; the thread was an almost silvery colour, glinting in the light.
"I woke up in the clinic of that chatty healer woman, the kedan one," the thief said offhandedly as he worked, explaining the strange stitches. "Who, by the way, had the gall to rebuke me for dying."
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"As for an announcement like that..." He didn't outright dismiss it, for it was something he'd considered. Most waking hours had been spent turning the battle over in his mind, the way he did with every duel, every right; it was just the way Bakura was. He never failed the same way more than once. And while certainly there was a part of it that was pride, there was also a careful consideration of the potential benefits verses costs.
"Not just yet, I think. Eager as I might be for a rematch," said with a razor smile and no trace of sarcasm, "I think with everything that's going on right now, there's still a chance they may make a reappearance on his own."
Even as he spoke he was removing the layer of linens, stained on their undersides with blood, to reveal the five deep furrows that marred his torso. The claws on the armor had been sharp -- too sharp, he thought darkly, to have been any normal metal -- and they'd bitten deep. Even if he hadn't drowned, he'd have lost so much blood that he would have succumbed within minutes anyway. The gashes had been stitched though, neatly and evenly and not in a way that suggested he'd done it himself; the thread was an almost silvery colour, glinting in the light.
"I woke up in the clinic of that chatty healer woman, the kedan one," the thief said offhandedly as he worked, explaining the strange stitches. "Who, by the way, had the gall to rebuke me for dying."