I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
I stand amongst the others milling about their menial lives, the hushed whisperings of magicks disappeared, leached from their bodies like the ails of old. A muscle at the base of my neck burns; I'd not noticed it before but if I hold my head just so ... I frown, nostrils drawn in tight with consternation. I cannot feel the Pull anymore. Hell, she is a fickle mistress, always calling to we who choose (or not so choose) to dwell with the mortals. My perfect siren, she is silent now. I ache for the sound of her voice now that it is gone. Funny, I would not have guessed.
The air is cool in my lungs. I had not noticed that before, either.
It is a moment before I realize she is speaking to me.
Has something happened. Is not always something happening?
I ask her as such, but not before I contemplate her. There is a lot you can tell, from quiet scrutiny, my eyes - a normal brown now, I would suppose - etching her form to memory. An old soul? Perhaps not as old as mine, though certainly more ancient than this vessel I possess. I stare hard another moment, lips parted with a slow breath before words are touched to flesh. "Is not always something happening? You know, already ... somewhere there." No supernaturals needed, here; I always was the discerning sort. I eye the moss that clings to hard to reach places, ears twisting back and then forth again. I want to hurt her but have no means yet. "Too many unknowns," I whisper, eyeing her with what I perceive to be innocence. The wintry air is cool in my ears, settling in my lungs with an aching sigh.
Niklas
Hybrid, Black, Set x Anaxarete, Demon