As she twists the conversation to assuage her boredom, her intentions grow ever more clear even as they remain shrouded. It does not take a great deal of cleverness to deduce what she can do is great indeed. She puppets the bones with an ease and broad disinterest that proclaim both proficiency and the monotony of a skill too well learned.
And for some unfathomable reason, she seemed to believe he could relieve her boredom.
The trill of his companion distracts him momentarily, Wren’s unease clear in the way he tucks himself deeper into the tangled strands of Ion’s mane. Returning his attention to the pair before him, he eyes the grotesque golem at her side as she continues, the predatory bent she had given it clear in the eyes of a fellow predator (even one who has never truly reveled in his predatory nature). He doesn’t try to interrupt, instead listening with a surprising clarity and carefulness not usually ascribed to those like Ion.
“I can hunt,” he finally agrees after she laments her own inability to do so without a body not her own. Though she twists the words, he understands almost instinctively. Even as she attempts to imitate with her puppet, she seeks those who could provide the thrill and adrenaline she so clearly craved. How, he is not certain - perhaps there is more to the power behind those bones than he yet realizes - but he is certain she is not lying. “And you believe my body would give you such joy?”
It is a probing question, one that does not make it clear whether he would find the prospect intriguing or not. In truth, he does not know himself. Though he had hunted in his feline form, he had never killed for sport. Had never felt the need to become a predator for predation’s sake alone. So he could not say he understood, nor could he say if he wished to or not.
What he does know however, is that, by its very nature, it must be fleeting. He has hunted enough to know it cannot last. And it does make him wonder. “Or could it be that you have demons of your own you’re trying to escape?”
It’s undoubtedly foolish to speculate, but he simply cannot fathom that such hunger could be borne from boredom alone. It seems that time and grief does not always fully erase naivete.
ion
in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain
@[violence]