There, within the pages in precise and organized script, lay the Solidor's new life, whatever that indeed would care to mean, dancing from his fingertips like a sprite leading the damned to hell - and damned he was if the Seraph had bothered to give him reason to rise again. By her own two hands, no less, a smile deigning to pretend to lend her features warmth.
Those moments pass quickly, but Vayne finds they are an age of agony that he ensures to ensnare before they further darken his face with long, gnarled fingers, sour what control he has and force him to put the cup of tea down. For a moment, his eyes gaze and find the smallest of hairline cracks traveling from the delicate handle, splintering into the now exposed bottom with its carefully painted peony pattern revealed as the colored water was drained. Was it the tea, or merely the topic of conversation that disrupted all so?
When the Doctor speaks again, the once Emperor compulsively reaches for his cup, nigh bringing it to his lips before he stops - it's still empty. For some seconds he stares. Air forces its way through his throat and mouth as with a soft clink of saucer and cup meeting again, he closes his eyes.
His tone of voice, though still articulate and well formed, is soft, the chill Vayne has felt so oft of late creeping into the edges of the language he lets spill from him. "Though my mind has pondered and pursued the topic to extort some semblance of sanity - there is none that hath deigned to illuminate creeping shadows." The man's eyes open again, and he looks to the Scientist, seeing the lines of years in his face, the way they connect and mold together at the corner of his eyes and tease creases into his forehead - they are so much the same as before. Has four years come and gone so fast where they have truly been dead? The Solidor does not hold his breath long. "Know you hence any art or magick unyielding to challenge this repetition of History's weave?"
no subject
Those moments pass quickly, but Vayne finds they are an age of agony that he ensures to ensnare before they further darken his face with long, gnarled fingers, sour what control he has and force him to put the cup of tea down. For a moment, his eyes gaze and find the smallest of hairline cracks traveling from the delicate handle, splintering into the now exposed bottom with its carefully painted peony pattern revealed as the colored water was drained. Was it the tea, or merely the topic of conversation that disrupted all so?
When the Doctor speaks again, the once Emperor compulsively reaches for his cup, nigh bringing it to his lips before he stops - it's still empty. For some seconds he stares. Air forces its way through his throat and mouth as with a soft clink of saucer and cup meeting again, he closes his eyes.
His tone of voice, though still articulate and well formed, is soft, the chill Vayne has felt so oft of late creeping into the edges of the language he lets spill from him. "Though my mind has pondered and pursued the topic to extort some semblance of sanity - there is none that hath deigned to illuminate creeping shadows." The man's eyes open again, and he looks to the Scientist, seeing the lines of years in his face, the way they connect and mold together at the corner of his eyes and tease creases into his forehead - they are so much the same as before. Has four years come and gone so fast where they have truly been dead? The Solidor does not hold his breath long. "Know you hence any art or magick unyielding to challenge this repetition of History's weave?"