05-15-2010, 06:52 AM
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Her anger was slowly seeping away like rainwater into the ground. “A name is a personal thing,” he said as though surprised she would even question his response, assuming that he even knew what she was questioning in the first place. Her single word had been an ambiguous answer, so he went with it cautiously. Mkhai was nothing more than a personal nickname of sorts, granted by his mother as he grew. He’d been a bratty child, rough-housing with his siblings until they might squeal in pain and annoyance, thus earning him the nickname of “fight” in their native Arabic.
It was the only title he would grant to those not extremely close to him, for one’s name held power and the jackal didn’t wish for those unworthy to hold any sort of power over him. The secret name of things had been what the gods had used to bring the entire world into existence, and it could be used just as easily to erase it, or to control aspects of it, such as himself. “If you knew that we’re cousins just by looking at me, then I assume that you know who I’m related to,” he said, returning to her previous statement. Was he that obvious in appearance or demeanor? Did something about him just scream Samael despite the plethora of likely enough Lykoi running about?
Vaguely, he knew that he resembled his sire—but the extent he’d yet to learn. Their face, their gestures, their movements—he was a younger version of the serpentine devil in monochrome grayscale with matching blood red eyes. Of course, housing a different soul there would always be differences, and Mkhai could not be blamed for the sins of his father despite their mirrored visages. “Do I carry a legacy I’d be better off without?” he asked slyly, wishing to get to the bottom of her previous aggression. A coy, curious expression had crept into his eyes as he watched her, playing the part of the innocent boy only wishing to learn.
Her anger was slowly seeping away like rainwater into the ground. “A name is a personal thing,” he said as though surprised she would even question his response, assuming that he even knew what she was questioning in the first place. Her single word had been an ambiguous answer, so he went with it cautiously. Mkhai was nothing more than a personal nickname of sorts, granted by his mother as he grew. He’d been a bratty child, rough-housing with his siblings until they might squeal in pain and annoyance, thus earning him the nickname of “fight” in their native Arabic.
It was the only title he would grant to those not extremely close to him, for one’s name held power and the jackal didn’t wish for those unworthy to hold any sort of power over him. The secret name of things had been what the gods had used to bring the entire world into existence, and it could be used just as easily to erase it, or to control aspects of it, such as himself. “If you knew that we’re cousins just by looking at me, then I assume that you know who I’m related to,” he said, returning to her previous statement. Was he that obvious in appearance or demeanor? Did something about him just scream Samael despite the plethora of likely enough Lykoi running about?
Vaguely, he knew that he resembled his sire—but the extent he’d yet to learn. Their face, their gestures, their movements—he was a younger version of the serpentine devil in monochrome grayscale with matching blood red eyes. Of course, housing a different soul there would always be differences, and Mkhai could not be blamed for the sins of his father despite their mirrored visages. “Do I carry a legacy I’d be better off without?” he asked slyly, wishing to get to the bottom of her previous aggression. A coy, curious expression had crept into his eyes as he watched her, playing the part of the innocent boy only wishing to learn.