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The beast did not see the cherub come forth from the penumbra, did not view the appearance of such a being in clarity and glory, did not expect a child to blunder upon the emptiness of his secluded (and ever so primitive) washroom. He did not see the twinkling aureate of pearls, for the least of things a soldier that has come from the clutches of death expects is the bumbling frame of a newborn lass to interrupt his reticence, to dare to approach a blood caked monster from the depths of a nightmare (as children should rightfully not do).
As such— he felt a tingling in his bones, a shiver down the length of his spine and creeping upon the back of his neck as the imaginations of hot air upon one's sinew (have you ever felt that you were being watched?) and the agitation that boils within his veins at such a frigid emotion is almost fretful. Indeed, the beast would have passed off such hallucinations of the mind as the chill that pervades at the icy fingers of the basin in which he cleanses; if not for the lingering apprehension of if this cavern was truly salvation from the daemons that wither and haunt the realm outside— if he did not query salvation existed— and gloomy cerulean flickers along with a heavily built dome around the vicinity (for he cannot pinpoint the precise place in which causes him such frustration as this).
He sees the little cherub then.
She is garbed in the palest of ivories, a snow kissed flesh that gleams and shimmers with the allurement of her framework (a daughter of gloriousness, no doubt) and speckled in aureate, as if one has flecked the girl with gems of gold at birth and they have sewn themselves into her sinew; it lines around her starboard pearl in a almost masquerade excellence, draping sterling cascading down from her dock and neck, streaked with vibrant gilt and fading to it's entirety in her forelock— the truest beauty of her appearance relying upon a stub in the midst of her dome, a gift from the divines above in blatant symbolism of her royal lineage. For she is of the crowned, the kingdom in which shall inherit the Earth in it's birthright above the less evolved rats and the mutated winged. All of this he takes in equal stride as the girl creeps ever closer; rivulets of now rosy hued water dribbling down across the contours of his ship. She is a gem, as all of is kind, and this is not new to him (although some of the crowned have been converted to the twisted morals of the unrighteous)— it is the golden hue of her molten pearls, the flecks that gleam and glitter as desert sand that catch his attention, for they resemble Her gaze; the enchanting dance in which they weave. Lyrics are given forth silvery and soft spoken, a spider's web that has come forth from a child's maw, and the (sheer) bemusement that occurs at the words she chooses in which to spin is enough to cause a grin to spread as honey across his maw (a rare occurrence, indeed). Is it not obvious as to what he is partaking in? Does she not understand the logic of a bath? Were not all woman trained from birth in the fickle ways of ladies, of beauty and apparel? How to swoon the hardest of men with waify curves and delicate whispers?
The guttural rumble of his voice slides forth from his maw— the ever so slight tone of amusement prominent in his tone as he twists his neck to gaze down upon her. "What does it look like? A bath, kid." There is something about the scent that wafts from the girl's flesh, a familiar tickle at the back of his thoughts; and yet it is shoved aside, it's importance equal to that of a rat of the skies in his mind.
There is a twinkle in his eye; a light, biting humor, dry in tone and presentation, although most certainly humorous in intention. "Didn't your mother teach you the importance of bath's? I thought you ladies had that down."
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[P] Why is a raven like a writing desk?
