A sharp tug of craving at his wit, but the more he experienced it, the better he learned to control it. Or so he thought. In reality, his craving appeared in bursts of different strength and whilst he could easily withstand the onslaught of weaker craving, the type of craving that a child might experience for sweet things, or an alcoholic -which he once was - may feel for kelp beer; there was no way that Valo could ignore that of divine power which had yet to overcome him. And no doubt it would, for the longer he would stare upon the face of beauty, even is quite plain in his eyes and aged like a flower in a vase, the stronger a force that craving would become.
For now however he was still at liberty to push back that force which now chained him. To tuck it away between the pages of his thought and focus on the task at hand. In some way of another he had to separate the two. He didn't really want to kill them both. In fact he didn't really want to kill either, it always just somewhat hapenned. Still, the artist could not repeat that same mistake from a few night ago. He could not bear another witness,even if he was about to forsake Zeltiva for a long time.
Remember me fondly Zeltiva and weep for me
It seemed that as of late, he had developed quite the poetically tragic persona. A light hearted, cheerful artist by day, almost to the point of sheer quaintness. By night he would fallow whereabouts unknown into an exploration of the darker truths that lined that man who was, for all intents and purposes, Valo.
In this world there are two types of birds, it seemed. There are those who sit atop the highest branches and sing their pretty songs. Those birds exude no light of aesthetic beauty. Their plumage if grey, but their talent great. Those birds are precious, yet untouchable for their fear of anything and everything keeps them alive. It keeps them from predators that he was. This precious song bird who kept her wit sharp and and her feat in tune of her silent song, was the auburn hared girl. For despite her looks lacking in magnificence, the artist saw something more special within her. She did not hack at him with the invisible chains of his craving, unlike the other. She perhaps was worth speech upon his behalf. She would avoid the knife tonight for song birds should never be silenced, otherwise only sadness would fall upon the land.
The other kind of bird was that with elaborate plumage who nested on the ground, in the grass or in the water, unafraid or simply too blind to see the danger which lingered between the lines of it's story. Those bird usually kept in groups, in hope that another may be sacrificed in their place. The aesthetic of their feathers, the vibrant colour and velvet texture, all to attract any attention they may be granted. Thus attention would be given, for before the night was out, the artist would lay waste to her life. Such birds have no song upon their lips, but deathly croaking of their beaks. Such a bird mattered little for a replacement was never so difficult to find.
He watched as the two briefly conversed, before that beautiful yet talentless bird approached him and the song on her lips was just that, void of any real beauty. "I'm going to go pick up a gift, and would love a man's strong presence to warm me and provide a sense of security. It's been so long since I've met a proper man. You sound like a foreigner, perhaps from a land of men and manners?"
He couldn't help but chuckle. Even past the line of death, women would still flirt with him. How laughable. And perhaps he wasn't so very arrogant to think himself above such mundane activities, Valo simply felt no allure of sexuality now. There was nothing she could grant him that he could make any use of. Bloodless, as he was, any attraction would be simply emotiona land such was perhaps much more difficult to gain that one would initially thing. No longer governed by youthful hormone and lust, he was. A mind that would otherwise be jaded by want, now though clearly in that aspect. Cold and calculating.
"Wind Reach, my dear." he chuckled, removing the hood of his cloak, revealing quite the lovely face. A deep handsomeness about him, despite the ivory whiteness of his skin. A well chiselled symmetry. Hair that now descended in length of scarlet hues, so very vibrant that even the dullest of wit would not mistake him fro any other than a true Inarta. And even if he was only half that, his appearance spoke not of human blood that once might have coursed though these collapsed veins. A porcelain doll is what he was, just a little dry looking but perhaps not that different to any normal eyes, from a simple human being. Eyes however, those eyes that surveyed the world with an artist's curiosity, they were of a deep liquid crimson, gently averted to the darkness.
"I would be so very glad to oblige." a merry smile lined his face. A warmth within it with which he so frequently graced his dear friends, for if there was anything Valo truly was; it was polite. A soft chuckle at the prospects of himself being 'strong'. No one has ever called him such. In fact a brief flashback occurred, only momentary in which he travelled back to those early days on his childhood in which his beloved sisters would comment on how quite skinny he was, and the lack of muscle upon his bones. Yes, such notion was simply laughable. But his lack of strength resulted in the augmentation of a different quality that now lay transfixed in this body to which his soul was tied; speed. He was faster.
"May I enquire as to your names, my ladies." he smiled, taking the red head's hand and placing a gentle kiss upon it, before nodding in appreciation to the other who seemed so weary of him. "I am Valo, a local artist. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. A true pleasure."
by Leila on March 12th, 2013, 12:58 am 
