The peculiar necklace was hooked around his thickly furred neck, and fell to the point formed between the white patch on his chest. It hung below the eagle, as if it was meant to be. Of the two, it was the can tah that had the power, not this sign. Larkspur belonged to the shadow and to the unseen path, and he believed that Misery would understand that. At her motion, he sat on the ground and kept his eyes on her face. Every word was illustrated in his mind, which was haunted by nightmarish visions and full of dark places.
Still, he understood the story was one of the Khalif, for the names were familiar. Ankh and Rah’khir were those which had chosen the holy. Not him. Not Larkspur, who had been cursed since birth. His eyes grew impossibly wide, a child seeing the story spilled out. Tak, the dark one, came and chose the wicked from the world. Even though Misery was speaking in a broad term, Larkspur still whined, hearing once again that he was evil. It hurt him, so much, to be reminded of the hundred voices that had cursed him since birth. “Y'don’t…y'don’t think I’m evil, d'ya?” He asked her, his deep voice rising to a hushed, childish whine, the thick and peculiar accent loudly pronounced now.
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