06-17-2009, 01:47 AM
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The young thing slowly approached, uncertain. And she should be. But he was kind and had bid her to join him, and she could not refuse him now. She had entered a dangerous arena. She was no longer safe. He would keep the light from touching her, but he did not protect her against his own presence that was held heavily upon the air like a black mist, shrouding the truth from the lies, the right from the wrong, the light from the dark. It was all the same—there was no right or wrong. There was only necessity. Upon another plane the wretched existences of this place had failed. They all had the delusions of their false gods, of fate and destiny, of purpose. They were all nothing. The girl had struggled with it—was it right to come as she was bidden, or was it right to leave? There should be no struggle because there was no right or wrong. There was only ‘is’.
Her voice was weak, the weakness of these lands imminent within her. Her blood was of now significant importance, and she was still youthfully unable to rise above it. Perhaps she never would. Practically all the wretched creatures of these lands refused to see the truth of the world, refused to see the futility of the pitiful lives. And like a bottled shadow he had sprung upon them. The emotionless façade was marred only by the slight twitch that moved his lips in vain. "I am the Night and the Darkness," came the tenor’s quiet reply, his voice dangerously suave and quiet. His head slowly turned, breaking the lithic stillness of the pied form with that eerie, unnatural fluidity. That intense, fierce gaze flickered with something black as he met the eyes of the white thing, piercing into her as if he could strip her bare, as if he could know all of her secrets, all of her moments of weakness and moments of darkness. For a long moment, he simply held her gaze, challenging her to look away, challenging her to retain that gaze and to challenge him. He could take her life so easily—she had already given it to him.
The black ears that rose above his head like those demonic horns of effigies long forgotten were unmoving as his head shifted. "Nothing that a whelp can give," the emotionless voice sneered in mockery. But nothing that can’t be taken. Whatever it was that the pied brute desired of her would be found. And if he wished to possess it, he would simply take it. She could not refuse him, and he would not be refused. The brute’s hollow gaze continued to pierce her. He saw the fearlessness within her and laughed that mirthless laughter that clawed the air. This thing was a thing of light. She could not accept the darkness that sought to burrow into her soul like the worms through a rotting carcass. There was no anger, there was no fear or hate. She had not opened the path to darkness. She was useless to him. She was better dead.
The young thing slowly approached, uncertain. And she should be. But he was kind and had bid her to join him, and she could not refuse him now. She had entered a dangerous arena. She was no longer safe. He would keep the light from touching her, but he did not protect her against his own presence that was held heavily upon the air like a black mist, shrouding the truth from the lies, the right from the wrong, the light from the dark. It was all the same—there was no right or wrong. There was only necessity. Upon another plane the wretched existences of this place had failed. They all had the delusions of their false gods, of fate and destiny, of purpose. They were all nothing. The girl had struggled with it—was it right to come as she was bidden, or was it right to leave? There should be no struggle because there was no right or wrong. There was only ‘is’.
Her voice was weak, the weakness of these lands imminent within her. Her blood was of now significant importance, and she was still youthfully unable to rise above it. Perhaps she never would. Practically all the wretched creatures of these lands refused to see the truth of the world, refused to see the futility of the pitiful lives. And like a bottled shadow he had sprung upon them. The emotionless façade was marred only by the slight twitch that moved his lips in vain. "I am the Night and the Darkness," came the tenor’s quiet reply, his voice dangerously suave and quiet. His head slowly turned, breaking the lithic stillness of the pied form with that eerie, unnatural fluidity. That intense, fierce gaze flickered with something black as he met the eyes of the white thing, piercing into her as if he could strip her bare, as if he could know all of her secrets, all of her moments of weakness and moments of darkness. For a long moment, he simply held her gaze, challenging her to look away, challenging her to retain that gaze and to challenge him. He could take her life so easily—she had already given it to him.
The black ears that rose above his head like those demonic horns of effigies long forgotten were unmoving as his head shifted. "Nothing that a whelp can give," the emotionless voice sneered in mockery. But nothing that can’t be taken. Whatever it was that the pied brute desired of her would be found. And if he wished to possess it, he would simply take it. She could not refuse him, and he would not be refused. The brute’s hollow gaze continued to pierce her. He saw the fearlessness within her and laughed that mirthless laughter that clawed the air. This thing was a thing of light. She could not accept the darkness that sought to burrow into her soul like the worms through a rotting carcass. There was no anger, there was no fear or hate. She had not opened the path to darkness. She was useless to him. She was better dead.