Oh, sweet.
A little scantle of rough meat.
Oh, wrapped in a rat-skin for you, sweet...
Sing-song mockery.
Close now, little fingers like gleaming bloodless alabaster curled through the sandy-russet chain-links of his prison.
Chin perched playfully on a long crossbar in the manner of a mannequin that had simply uncorked its head and placed it thoughtlessly upon a shelf.
A grin as sweet and warm as freshly turned grave-soil, and then it's gone again.
Lost to the Deeps.