Post by Quirbles on Jun 4, 2023 16:36:12 GMT
"Mmh." Azazel muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand. He'd hear no more of thieves-- he was sure they were stealing from him, no matter what his consort spoke of. Many seasons ago. "You speak ill of my memory," The Prince accused, standing from his throne as Malakha disappeared from it, "And you commune with ignoble shadows in my stead..." He drifted off, at that, one hand gripping the right arm of his throne as, with a sigh, he rubbed at his plated face with the other, gauntlets lightly dragging along pocked metal and stained ironflesh. "... what other slights have I endured without my knowledge, I cannot help but wonder." He let the words hang in the air a moment longer, then stepped forth, head hanging low for a moment before another breath-- a simulacrum, an empty gesture-- fell from the fused jaw of his skull.
"... thank you." He muttered. It would be the only admission she would get from him-- Malakha would be more than familiar with his evanescent ire and equally transient episodes-- but some part of him remained unburdened and true to his purpose, and it shone through the murk of his torment with increasing rarity. Each day, it felt as if a part of him had been chipped away-- as if he were a once-proud monument to virtue and good, and his structure had been frightfully and steadily chipped away at until he was nothing but an unsalvaged relic of forgotten memories. To recall his past was to root through weed and thorn alike to cup a single flower in his palm. But she-- the sprite, he meant-- was a constant. She anchored him-- grounded him.
"Let us go, then," Azazel finally spoke, fetching his hammer from its place upon the wall. "But if they are traitors, you know what must be done."
"... thank you." He muttered. It would be the only admission she would get from him-- Malakha would be more than familiar with his evanescent ire and equally transient episodes-- but some part of him remained unburdened and true to his purpose, and it shone through the murk of his torment with increasing rarity. Each day, it felt as if a part of him had been chipped away-- as if he were a once-proud monument to virtue and good, and his structure had been frightfully and steadily chipped away at until he was nothing but an unsalvaged relic of forgotten memories. To recall his past was to root through weed and thorn alike to cup a single flower in his palm. But she-- the sprite, he meant-- was a constant. She anchored him-- grounded him.
"Let us go, then," Azazel finally spoke, fetching his hammer from its place upon the wall. "But if they are traitors, you know what must be done."