[ Post a Response | Desreal ]
Posted by betrayal on December 11, 2008, 10:33 am, in reply to "there is always something worse; TRAY"
Message modified by board administrator December 11, 2008, 12:22 pm
Why the pursuit of the destruction of happiness is high on Betrayal's priority list, is likely never to be known. It could be argued that his childhood was too troubled, or that he was raised in a society so violent that new life was rarer than death, or that it was simply habit after so many years - or perhaps, he found that it was far more entertaining to destroy than to preserve. Why are you doing this?! they would shriek at him as they die, and he had never had an answer, until recently.
Because I can't stop. He whispers softly to himself, smiling in the darkness.
The shard is more alive than ever, this morning - it seems its brief hiatus from power has tripled its drive to succeed, and Betrayal succumbs to its lullaby because he must. Find my brothers! it hisses in his ears, Think of the hell we could wreck upon Andarin when you wield all the Elements we offer; break our weakness to Earth and take your true place as your mother's heir! He cannot hear himself over the commands of his slaver, so he must believe he agrees.
He is on his way to the mountains when Kaspara's footsteps break the silence and the Keeper freezes in place, one dark, lightless ear turning in her direction. His initial reaction is to leave - but the Shard is excited for some reason and roots his legs, and Betrayal's lips peel back from his teeth in protest. Now now, Water wielder, not so fast… it jeers at him happily, Don't you want to meet one of the first Victims? He cannot say he does, but the shard turns his body to her all the same, and from the shadows of the Glade he slips like a knife.
The morning will lie to her eyes - it will sigh lustfully over the sharp corners of his muscles, smooth beneath his starless skin; it will highlight every handsome line on his face, and fade the yellow in his gaze. She will mistake him as normal, with his gunslinger's swagger and his charming smile, tall and dark and striking, in the prime of timeless years. And when he speaks, his voice is mystery; steel-edged and yet pleasing all the same, flattering the attractive lift of his lips.
Morning. He says passably, pausing in stride (though she may catch the sarcasm behind it, if she spies the subtle tweak of his brow). He makes no modest attempt to hide the way his eyes flicker across the many scars on her body, but never lets them linger too long - they return ice-blue to her own gaze, unnaturally calm and indifferent.
I feel like we've met before. Do you recall? his devil's smirk widens, and she may notice now the scythe-like scar that runs jagged along his eye, wine-dark with dried and drying blood.
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