The fiend could feel the chill, the scowl, the twisting of her features upon him – as if he were scum, delivering truths she’d either already known or simply didn’t want to hear. He faced them with an easygoing placidity, neither reigning in treachery, danger, alarm, or cruel, malicious designs, not a rogue, not a monster, eyeing her eldritch gaze with a flippant, calm, brazen air. He expected something to slip past her tongue, sizzle on her fangs, poison perhaps, venom launched and harpooned, slithering and crawling towards his wake to intoxicate him in her rage, like her mother – some great asp, some unleashed cobra, no longer tamed by charms or songs. Instead, however, she seemed to give in to the aspects he’d rendered, and he watched, silent and enduring, strong and tranquil, as her mask was strategically notched over her eyes all over again. He almost clucked in disappointment – he’d rather enjoyed the relish, the sensation, the pulse of her ferocity, because it meant there was something down in her marrow, in her bones, beyond the quiet, frozen girl who claimed to be borne from Psyche, who held a griffin in her grasp, who was speckled and dotted and marked for something she didn’t know, didn’t see. Even after she focused away from him, back into the marbles of monsters and demons, he almost gave way to a sigh, thinking nothing had transpired, that all the silly wisdom he’d managed to gather in his days had been ignored, rebuffed, scorned for the past and never the present. The devil wanted her eyes on him, believing him, for he uttered truths, because he wanted to help, wanted to guide, wanted to christen her with something, anything. She shouldn’t be left rotting, festering, withering in shadows. “Everyone has the opportunity to be great.”

His voice isn’t quiet. Its smooth and magnetic, captivating and drawing, a portion of allure meant for Machiavellian disciples. Its alluring and beguiling, another token of the shadows and Stygian regions, where he could’ve been flanked and draped and clothed in Lucifer pictures and portraits; bending over the lines of forest roots and coffin catacombs. He believed every ounce of his speech, for he’d seen greatness, for he’d witnessed triumph, and he knew he could snag it for himself. “But its how they get there that matters, I think. Its what pulls them to become something.”  What inspires you? he wanted to ask her, but he wasn’t sure what her answer would be. He didn’t know if she even had one, ready and prepared, beyond the scope of seeking answers – what was she going to do when she found them?

“You’ll find a purpose,” he assured her, in his calm, composed stance, where coiled muscles met handsome, silly, miscreant flesh, where the drumming of his vocals conjured livelihoods and promises. He was an oath, a proclamation, and a devilish accord all rolled into one – so secure, so capable, so bold and audacious, willing to lead the lady to wherever she wished. “I always say what I mean,” he winked, as if he’d never told a single lie (Ignatius and Nepdon excluded, he murmured to Orsino, like he could cross fingers behind his back and neglect other scattered remnants of a misspent youth), leaning towards her, eyes akin to mischief and discord. “Follow me,” he echoed on a grin, turning away from the shadows, towards mountains and eaves.

[Feel free to post again? :D I can get another thread up for us tomorrow in the Basin. ^_^]