01-07-2010, 02:03 AM
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No, there was no need for the names or the holy signs that Larkspur knew and obeyed. There was no need for him to damage himself as he had—ruin his fur and carve white signs into his arms, where they shown as fresh as the day Misery had branded him. She had not let him shy away from the pain, and instead warned him that to not face it head on would result in disaster. As with all things, he had believed her. He had believed her so ultimately that even when his flesh had cried out and burnt away, he had been silent. All of the pain he had felt in his life, these marks were perhaps some of the worst. Except he could no longer remember them. Pain was forgotten by the brain, and Larkspur did not remember any pain; he recognized it, and knew it had occurred, but now could not remember what it had felt like.
This Haku Soul seemed offended that Larkspur had ruined his coat. Sacred. His ears rose to a crown atop his head, and his eyes sharpened considerably. This man was not of Tak, but he knew Tak’s color and sought to make it his own. Perhaps it was not simply his family he had been sent here to educate. Perhaps it was his role to spread Tak’s Will as he supposed it always had been intended.
Around his throat, the can tah whispered.
Larkspur heard, and obeyed.
“It was t’path put b’fore me,” he explained, lifting his head just slightly. “There’s two roads, n’either I’m chosen for one, or fer another.” For Tak or for the White. Of the two, it was Tak’s will that was strongest, and the one that even his Aunt-Mother had never questioned. “A prophet gave me tha fur and tha marks I carry, but Misery ain’t bound by anything but the Line.” It was the only way to explain himself, and explain it without revealing his dark-God’s name, without revealing more then he intended. Except Larkspur found kinship in the blue-eyed devil, and now sought to understand him.
“Y’can make yer fur black, y’know,” he said, advancing slowly, despite the bared teeth. “It’s eas’r then makin’ it light.” It took time, but it could be done. Just as it took time for his to turn white, and even this was not permanent. Within the month it would grow out, even though age would prove master in turning his fur to that other holy color: white.
No, there was no need for the names or the holy signs that Larkspur knew and obeyed. There was no need for him to damage himself as he had—ruin his fur and carve white signs into his arms, where they shown as fresh as the day Misery had branded him. She had not let him shy away from the pain, and instead warned him that to not face it head on would result in disaster. As with all things, he had believed her. He had believed her so ultimately that even when his flesh had cried out and burnt away, he had been silent. All of the pain he had felt in his life, these marks were perhaps some of the worst. Except he could no longer remember them. Pain was forgotten by the brain, and Larkspur did not remember any pain; he recognized it, and knew it had occurred, but now could not remember what it had felt like.
This Haku Soul seemed offended that Larkspur had ruined his coat. Sacred. His ears rose to a crown atop his head, and his eyes sharpened considerably. This man was not of Tak, but he knew Tak’s color and sought to make it his own. Perhaps it was not simply his family he had been sent here to educate. Perhaps it was his role to spread Tak’s Will as he supposed it always had been intended.
Around his throat, the can tah whispered.
Larkspur heard, and obeyed.
“It was t’path put b’fore me,” he explained, lifting his head just slightly. “There’s two roads, n’either I’m chosen for one, or fer another.” For Tak or for the White. Of the two, it was Tak’s will that was strongest, and the one that even his Aunt-Mother had never questioned. “A prophet gave me tha fur and tha marks I carry, but Misery ain’t bound by anything but the Line.” It was the only way to explain himself, and explain it without revealing his dark-God’s name, without revealing more then he intended. Except Larkspur found kinship in the blue-eyed devil, and now sought to understand him.
“Y’can make yer fur black, y’know,” he said, advancing slowly, despite the bared teeth. “It’s eas’r then makin’ it light.” It took time, but it could be done. Just as it took time for his to turn white, and even this was not permanent. Within the month it would grow out, even though age would prove master in turning his fur to that other holy color: white.
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