03-21-2017, 03:34 PM
He scents him before he speaks; hears him, passing over soft, spongy earth and grass. Ribcage has remarkably precise senses, sharpening like claws on the altar of his sightlessness, his half-made body had begun to compensate from an early age. He stiffens a bit, ears flicking to orient himself with the on-comer.
Lilin would be able to tell him what was there: dusty purple, wearing arrogance like something lovely on every inch of his body, wet and shrewd and, perhaps, slightly repelled. (She would tell him he’s no good, but Lilin is skittish and meek.) Ribcage is in the dark, turning his savage, unkempt body till he believes he faces this stranger square. His chin pulls into his chest, nostrils flaring to drink every bit of the scent in—he is defensive, every muscle tight and uncomfortable.
“Am I?” he turns his head this way and that, some strange, instinctual habit, as if trying to see him through those empty, leatherlike vacancies. “I do not know you.” The smell is foreign, perfumed and fleshy—erotic in undertone, as if he just recently spent himself. “...Killdare?”
He “looks” to the ground, considering. There had been… something of a kindness to Killdare. Not one the boy could see, but one he could feel in the way he wafted scent to him with those leathery wings. He admired the man, but perhaps the boy was seeking that in anyone he could find.
“Yes, I suppose if you’d call it servitude. I did.” It had been short-lived, though for a moment he felt purpose in the furrows wrought by angry claws and magician’s terror. He didn’t love the Chamber, but it's all he had and the endless haranguing by his mother—‘you don’t owe them anything, it’s just me and you my boy; just me and you’—had driven him into its arms. Enough to fight for it, anyway.
(Enough to kill for it. Then that had been enough for him.)
“Who are you? What do you want?” He gives no ounce of patience or civility. He lives in a world where thing are out to get him and his siblings.
He needs his (their) defenses back.
Lilin would be able to tell him what was there: dusty purple, wearing arrogance like something lovely on every inch of his body, wet and shrewd and, perhaps, slightly repelled. (She would tell him he’s no good, but Lilin is skittish and meek.) Ribcage is in the dark, turning his savage, unkempt body till he believes he faces this stranger square. His chin pulls into his chest, nostrils flaring to drink every bit of the scent in—he is defensive, every muscle tight and uncomfortable.
“Am I?” he turns his head this way and that, some strange, instinctual habit, as if trying to see him through those empty, leatherlike vacancies. “I do not know you.” The smell is foreign, perfumed and fleshy—erotic in undertone, as if he just recently spent himself. “...Killdare?”
He “looks” to the ground, considering. There had been… something of a kindness to Killdare. Not one the boy could see, but one he could feel in the way he wafted scent to him with those leathery wings. He admired the man, but perhaps the boy was seeking that in anyone he could find.
“Yes, I suppose if you’d call it servitude. I did.” It had been short-lived, though for a moment he felt purpose in the furrows wrought by angry claws and magician’s terror. He didn’t love the Chamber, but it's all he had and the endless haranguing by his mother—‘you don’t owe them anything, it’s just me and you my boy; just me and you’—had driven him into its arms. Enough to fight for it, anyway.
(Enough to kill for it. Then that had been enough for him.)
“Who are you? What do you want?” He gives no ounce of patience or civility. He lives in a world where thing are out to get him and his siblings.
He needs his (their) defenses back.
misery loves company and madness calls it forth
![[Image: sAxX94g.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sAxX94g.png)