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03-26-2015, 05:45 PM
He automatically doubted her first statement, because very few found his company pleasant, but he listened regardless, constantly yearning to fill the Basin with strength, with vigilance, with vehemence. She brimmed with confidence, and though whether or not it was earned with strength, with conviction, or mere audacity (an entitled dominion, flanked and emboldened by things they thought they deserved, meant to be smothered, choked, then strangled until they took their last, lingering, foolish breath), if she had any ambition at all, she could serve the mountains and peaks well. What would drive her to dusk and dawn was another thing altogether, and the summits provided several options – but she’d have to be willing to grasp hold, because none of them would draw her towards the necessary flames unless she participated, unless she yearned, unless she craved. The considering Reaper, a master of demise, of death, of quietus, had long since found his occupation for upheaval, for chaos, for bedlam, for all the treacheries folded and entombed in the earth, but many others wandered across empires with nothingness tied to their minds, empty minds and useless bodies. He had no intention of providing resources, information, wisdom, erudition, and experience for a creature intending to wither off into the horizon, chasing indulgences and impassioned impulses. His gaze narrowed, speculating, scrutinizing, inquiring amidst the Machiavellian wiles of his Lucifer mind, yearning to empower his herd while not layering it with indolent, shiftless, remiss strangers hoping for charity and stoking foolishness. Where her purposes were incised, fueled, and empowered could be an intriguing conclusion, proffering or bestowing her chosen path, or confirming the unknown was doomed to haunt her. The deep chisel of his voice, eternally candid, forthright, and only transcribing necessities, regarded her statement, sculpted more deliberations and calculations. “And what drives you?” Power? Prestige? Domination? Supremacy? The unsaid clamors pierced and lacerated through his stare, for he knew all of the nefarious arts, the sinister regimes, the harpooning slate of sedition and irreverence. He probed and barbed, threw another set of thorns to see which one she tore, bit into, conspiring eager revelations or taut, rigid concerns. “We have ranks in healing, thievery, warriors, emissaries, and sagacity.” Which spurned assertion, ease, or transparency?
