11-15-2016, 02:51 AM
Bruise’s temper was not fast.
He did not burn like kindling, set aflame at nearby flicker. Those who did were foolish, quick to the trigger but the first to be snuffed out. They lacked control, discipline. Anger was but one bruise in an artist’s toolkit—but one hue. It could be magnificent, but it had to be wielded correctly. To dip the brush into the crimson paint, one must be ready for the wound it would create on canvas. If you controlled it, anticipated it, the end result was magnificent. If not, a disaster. Bruise had every intention of of creating a masterpiece.
So he did not rile at the stallion’s snapped threats, although he did not take them idly either. Instead, he simply gave a slow, empty smile—the gesture barren and frighteningly controlled on his coltish face. “It is a shame you must yell so loud to distract from the rattling of silence in your mind.” He watched him then with thinly veiled disgust, irritated at the lack of disrespect, at the crass display of aggression.
His mind reached outward, crawling toward the threads of the Fear that tenuously hung between them now. He plucked at them like a violinist, playing them carefully. He did not want Nier on his knees trembling, but he would not mind teaching him a lesson. You did not spit on the Fear; you did not take it lightly. To curse Bruise was to curse Pollock, which was simply something the boy could not ignore.
“You should learn to be grateful when offers you a gift,” he hissed under his breath, pulling the threads of Fear more surely, more deftly now. “And you have the gall to ask what I want.” His eyes were brighter, but he remained still, the young muscles underneath his coat hard.
“What is it you seek?”
Bruise
head like a hole; as black as your soul.
no worries! same thing here regarding the fear induction. up to you how he reacts or if he even feels it.
