[M] i smell a massacre.

Larkspur D'Angelo · 10-26-2010, 12:52 AM

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Simple connections had broken apart in Larkspur’s emotional conduits. He was not capable of forming lasting relationships, not capable of discerning what was right and what was wrong in the greater scheme of things. He had learned by observation while with Misery, but even now he was incapable of knowing when he had gone too far, when he had said something wrong. He spoke dissident because he knew it to be truth. If he had been wiser, he would have held his tongue and waited for the day King was strong enough to overthrow his brother and return Dahlia to what it needed to be.

For these reasons, he did not notice anything wrong with her bright eyes as they held his own, and he did not think it strange she spoke so openly about such a taboo subject. Hardly; a barking laugh escaped him, turning his face mad. It was the face of a man who had seen death many times before, the face of a man who had been driven mad long before he had ever known compassion. It died as abruptly as it had come. His eyes, fever-bright, held her own as the pupils widened as if they sought to swallow her whole. “Black is sin,” he said bitterly. “Once a year there was a fire.” He fell silent, though his ears twitched and swiveled as if they heard another voice. “I should’ve died last summer.”

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