07-01-2008, 05:38 PM
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!@#$%Some tread lightly throughout life, opting to stick to the shadows and mind their own business. Their footprints were often washed away quickly from the sands of time, but the legacy that Damian (and Nosferatu before him) left behind was a great one. Ahren was beyond a doubt the rightful prince of Chimera and this legacy, but Chimera was long gone now, and the affairs of wolves concerned him little anyway. Indeed, it was Kaena and her son whose reputations seeped like venom throughout a great majority of the immediately surrounding areas. Ahren's marks were too vague and subtle for most to consider them much--they didn't particularly involve full out genocide against the dominant population of wolves. Regardless, Anselm had never met Ahren, but odds were he would know who he was immediately upon their initial encounter. The two males looked remarkably similar for how distant of relatives they truly were. Frankly, this was the last thing on his mind. !@#$%She smiled at him and giggled--normally he would be offended or upset with somebody for not taking him seriously. It was strange how his mind could twist a light, soothing sound into something cacophonous and grating. The drugs pumping through his veins made him toss this notion out the window, though, and a dumb smile found its way to his face as he stared up at her--she, the mysterious dark lady clothed in ancient garments who still may not "officially" exist. Rather than float down to him on a lofty breeze, she found her way over to the ladder and made her way down. Only now did he tip his head forward, and for an instant he was annoyed at how heavy his face felt. He leaned forward a bit more to compensate, then swallowed as he remembered that the hollow, soft sound of footfalls meant he had company. !@#$%She took a seat nearby him on the arm rest, and he peered up at her curiously, as if seeking permission for something. One hand lifted hesitantly, and he touched the frill of the dress and pressed it between his fingers. It was soft, yet somewhat stiff from the salt water--and it sure felt strange. Perhaps it was because it was synthetic? The bright pink colour was so unnatural to him. Most clothing he'd seen in the past was faded and blackened with dirt. He'd also paid very little attention to it, so perhaps this was just what a closer examination ought to reveal. But was it? Before he grew too confused in his hazy thinking, she broke the silence with a simple Spanish greeting. Right now, everything was literal. Obviously, this meant she only spoke Spanish. Shit. His brow furrowed as he struggled to recall the choppy bits of the language that he knew. !@#$%"Buenas.. dias. ... ¿Qué es?" he inquired lightly, referencing the dress. Not that he would understand the Spanish word for it, anyway.  |