The cavalier way Wreath talked about his own torture was annoying Craven to no end. He'd had fantasies for years of Wreath finally getting his comeuppance, and now that some of those fantasies had actually come to fruition, the level of glee was far below the threshold he'd been expecting. Just because Wreath didn't seem to care. Or if he did, it was in the entirely wrong direction.

Craven's shoulder was still hurting. It gave a very specific hum of pain right at that moment, and Craven grimaced past it, instinctively reaching over to rub where the injury used to be. Where the ugly scar now was.

"My dress-sense is no more or less than what the Temple decrees," Craven responded with a thread of barely-concealed hate. Then he remembered he didn't have to conceal it anymore, and his next words were a lot more openly full of spite. "Unlike some people I could mention, I adhere to every tenet of the faith, instead of just what I feel suits me."

He wore thermals under his robes, but Craven knew for a fact that Tenebrae did too. He'd always been quietly jealous of Wreath, with his heated apartment outside the Temple and his nice warm suits. Wreath wasn't wearing a suit now, and self-righteousness was easily the best way to ignore irrational jealousy. "Why aren't you dead?" he demanded through clenched teeth. "Or comatose? Or at least catatonic? You're blind."