What a strange child. His narrowed eyes examined her carefully, drawing in each exquisite detail, making instinctual mental note of every movement, every expression, every scent she gave. His mind was wicked machinery, gobbling up the information with reckless abandon, like a ghastly factory filled with soulless workers. His genius was the thing of rumors, said to border the madness that fuelled others to destruction. Only briefly could that gaping pit of insanity be seen; In the flicker of a pupil, engorging itself on light.
She was right to be wary of him, but even so, the girl's apparent anxiety seemed to border on the paranoia of one meeting a true stranger, a possible foe; Not one's King. He was, after all, supposed to be the shepherd of these souls - Their protector, their guide. And yet, her wariness was justified, for Sirius Revlis was no merciful monarch, beloved by all kinsmen and subjects alike. Oh, no; He was a much fouler creature than that, a serpent crowned by thorns and adorned with feathers of the peacock. His vanity was, perhaps, the only thing that rivaled his intelligence; Within this was the innate tendency for off-hand cruelty. He had the cold heart of a businessman, and even without the bloodthirsty love for carnage that some fellow monsters harbored, one would be foolish to think of Sirius as harmless, or even reasonable. He played by no rules beyond his own, and even these were fluid, at best.
Thus, although he willed her no harm, the girl's mistrust of him was viewed with a mixture of surprise and cold-hearted curiosity. She was a valuable item, as most of the spawn from Larkspur and Eris were; He held no animosity for her, or her brethren, within his withered heart. If anything, they were favored for their likeness to their parents, privileged from birth to a life of higher class than those who were unrelated by blood. Her downcast gaze was respectful, but he sensed deeper thoughts behind it than the mere instinctual tug of subservience. She turned obediently at his suggestion, and the prowling beast fell into step beside her, his own fluid gait hindered only by a slight favoring of the wounded foreleg.
Sweet, childish voice asked a light question. The beast's tall ears dipped to catch it, his thoughtful expression devilish in the brittle half-light. A ponderous sound, like a purred hum, rumbled deep in the King's chest before oozing out his maw as a low chuckle. "Tell me what you like to do, Artemisia. What are you good at?" It seemed to be an innocent enough question, but her answer could dictate her entire value within the pea-green gaze of the King.
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