bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
He’s not sure if he’s ever met anyone like her before either, although he doesn’t dwell on such thoughts too much. She is fashioned like a demon but otherwise has little about her that speaks to demonic qualities. She appears thoughtful, measured, reserved, and he finds that he can appreciate such things, watching her with a cool gaze, studying her and taking her apart with an unabashed stare. He’s never felt the need to apologize for his curiosity, for the constant thirst of knowledge that scratches at the back of his throat, and he’s not going to start now. Instead, he hungrily watches her, soaking up every detail.
“Very few know anything about me,” he says simply. He hasn’t ever opened himself up for it. The only soul on this earth who could claim to know what lay beneath his surface was his twin, brilliant and sharp and cruel in her own right. She dug hungry, greedy fingers into him and lay claim to everything that lie below the surface. Not that he attempted to keep them from her. After all, she was as much his as he was hers and trying to shield something from her felt as unnatural as segmenting his own mind.
But she is not here now and he leaves her in the back of his mind, instead focusing on the demon woman before him. “You would probably be wise to stay among the masses.” He wasn’t particularly cruel, and he didn’t necessarily hunger for destruction, but he also couldn’t be bothered to shield others, protect them.
His gaze flickers to her tail, forked and alien, before they drift to the shadows that curl up her legs. He tilts his head in thought, taking the metaphorical blade to his flesh and splitting open his shoulder. The blood flows more freely as he calls upon his own magic, letting the darkness sizzle as it crawls up him in kind, mirroring her own tendrils. He contemplates it for a moment, and then ignores it, letting the ropes of the darkness wind around his limbs. He brings his gaze back up to her face, searching it for a moment.
“To start.” A wolfish, predatory tilt of lip. “I want a great deal more.”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
@[Zosma]
