But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about making your amends to the dead
The nervous cretin cowered and trembled but Vikander did not look away. His eyes were sharp knives of ice, piercing and cutting and mutilating with the strength of their displeasure. The stranger scrambled to collect his cards, creasing a number of them in the frantic process before scrambling to his feet. His size far exceeded Vikander’s own humble stature, but he certainly didn’t act that way, seeming to shrink and withdrawal in himself to appear smaller. Vikander scoffed.How you're planning to go about making your amends to the dead
Oh, no. This pitiful lad was not a member of the Scarab, and it was simply due to the name drop of Aghavni that stopped the warlock for shouting out for some muscle to toss him out. The Friesian’s eyes narrowed and his chin lifted, staring hard down his muzzle at the nervous newcomer.
The aggressive display was completely uncharacteristic of the otherwise silent and sullen warlock. He was not one for shouting, stomping around, or acts of aggression like baring his teeth like a heathen. He much preferred being left alone to his own devices, to skulk from shadow to shadow to avoid the prying eyes of the Scarab’s rather handsy patrons. Yet this man, this crimson and gold clad man with a rather uncharacteristic appearance, had interrupted his work and he had been so damn close!
He and fury did not go hand in hand, but at that moment they were synonymous.
An ebony ear flicked forward once the crimson-hued stranger spoke. The man was here to get his scarab? “You must be joking.” The statement was said without much thought, the tight-lipped seal on the words that left his mouth surprisingly lax. Yet if he had made it this far into the heart of the Scarab, he couldn’t possibly be joking. The thought was positively infuriating.
Well. Compared to the following statement that left the brightly colored fellow’s mouth, asking to get his scarab was nothing. Aghavni had told him to help in his research? That was a lie, it had to be. The woman knew that Vikander rarely accepted help when it came to his research, and if anyone would be lucky to assist him, it wouldn’t be a good for nothing stranger.
The warlock was very aware that his ire and irritation was a very palpable thing. Tangible, almost, and surely felt by the most empathetic fools around. Gritting his teeth, the ebony skinned male heaved a breath through his nose, icy blue eyes still locked on the crimson and gold fellow. “I’ll give you your scarab. That’s it.” The statement said, the Friesian turned with a trail of black, tousled curls and slipped back into his room, leaving the door open behind him for the newcomer to enter.
With something as tedious and precious as the souls of his wife and daughter, Vikander didn’t even know if he would allow Senna to help him. This man was a fool if he thought the warlock was that stupid.
“Shut the door behind you.” With the growl his only order, Vikander returned to his desk. He pushed aside what he had been working on for the time being and pulled open a drawer, beginning to sift through the contents carefully. Stacks of parchment, rolled scrolls, a few books… Muttering to himself, the warlock shut the drawer with a slam. He rounded once more upon the crimson and gold fellow, eyes narrowed. “Where do you want it?”
@Valefor
