Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
Who lurks within the shadows? The warrior breathes and Denocte’s Ghost does not even blink at her question.
Neither is he stirred by her demand that comes next. No words, no viperous bite of her tongue could pull him from them. The Crow has become as black as night, his skin swallowing shadows like an abysmal maw.
He does not bring his scarf, yet he feels its weight about his throat all the same. He feels just how it would slide against the soft of her throat, nestling into the curve beneath her jaw and there, waiting to be pulled, tighter and tighter still.
Yet, like water from a wing, he shrugs away such thoughts. The Crow has been raised a murderer and now, it was all he knew. That and his religion. He was born into black, and now he adorns himself in it too.
She turns, this girl. She looks hither and thither. Her eyes pass over him, once, twice and still she does not inspire him to move. Oh he watches her, he studies her. The curve of her body, the way she moves. Raum is silent, an artist, a dancer of an assassin. Murder is his dance and silence his song.
“What good would it do me to obey your command?” He asks of her, a voice like silk, oh yes, akin to the one that might tighten about her throat (if he had it with him). The Ghost still remembers the way his lover fought the noose he held her in. He should feel more…
And yet this Crow is empty. He feels nothing of love, this radical, radical Crow. “If you wish to know who I am, then come to me.”
Still he stands, watching her as she watches him. Behind her is a stall from which he stole his daughter’s dagger. He remembers her smile, the way he drowned in the blue of her gaze.
Raum does not smile. He does not even blink.
this is so ick, I am sorry @
You're one microscopic cog
in his catastrophic plan
in his catastrophic plan