01-24-2014, 04:33 PM
Why had his question elicited laughter? Dane's reflection was brief. Not often was he interested in someone enough to bother with scraping more than just the surface. Besides, there were better ways to make those kinds of connections.
Another marker along the wall drew the girl's attention, and Dane followed if only to check the name. He wouldn't mind reciting a few lines of Chekhov's to the man's corpse, but he had to find the grave first.
From within the voluminous sleeve of her outrageous coat thrust a woman's tiny wrist. Her fingers bent skeletal as though to scratch at the stone, and it was with passing interest that Dane noticed her tattoo. As tattooing itself is suppose to be a rather uncomfortable process, logically one would think the more one displayed, the greater their tolerance for pain ought to be. Interestingly, in his experience, the opposite appeared to be true.
"He must have been a notable man,"
Dane offered some explanation. He was growing weary of what seemed to be a repeat of the previous line of questions. While studying it, one symbol in particular caught his eye. One with whom he'd just observed.
He stood back and studied Aria curiously. Coincidence seemed the most likely explanation, but the embers of curiosity were stoked. "Will you ask for the same symbol to be carved into your headstone as well?"
One hand creaked within its leathery glove as he pointed out the shape, then trailed the finger accusingly at her sleeve. Dane cocked a nimble smile. "It must mean something to you. To etch it forever in your skin. Your gravestone will last much longer, after all."
He was being facetious, of course, and smiled wrinkles of smile toward his feet as he turned from her eye.
Movement, reflected on the marble slab, caught the corner of his eye. He glanced up, and casually looked behind him. Between graves, skinny trees pierced upward from the ground like spikes in a moat. Their limbs were bare, spindles reaching out for one another's touch, but found only cold, empty air. Which was as much as Dane saw. In the distance the domes of the church loomed from the monastery across the way. Perhaps a glow had caught one of those golden arcs, and shot light at just the right angle.
He shrugged it off, and instead took the path forward once more. The next site was shaped in a circle, the ground of which was littered with a carpet of carnations. At the back was a man-sized statue shaped to be sitting on a cloak-draped bench. A hound laid its head on his paws at the man's feet.
"Today was this one's birthday."
He pointed at the flowers and beckoned Aria closer. He plucked a pristine white one from the bunch, then took a great seizure of the power and offered her the present. "Come see,"
he spoke quietly.
Enhanced by the power, the eyes of a night born bird witnessed every detail about her. From the way she moved to the curls of her fingers and the furrow of her expression. How lovely she would be with that dark hair laid back on a carpet of red - formerly white - flowers.
His smile was broad and naive of what lurked in the darkness behind him. A howl, like wind, was his only warning, and what felt like the weight of the Kremlin itself fell on his shoulders. He grunted, but the howl grew in his mind, and when he fell to his knees, then his hands, he writhed as though to fling off whatever pounced on him, but the great, breathless leech clung.
He struck mindlessly toward the Power, but found to his shock, he was unable to do anything with it. "Get it off!"
He gasped.
Another marker along the wall drew the girl's attention, and Dane followed if only to check the name. He wouldn't mind reciting a few lines of Chekhov's to the man's corpse, but he had to find the grave first.
From within the voluminous sleeve of her outrageous coat thrust a woman's tiny wrist. Her fingers bent skeletal as though to scratch at the stone, and it was with passing interest that Dane noticed her tattoo. As tattooing itself is suppose to be a rather uncomfortable process, logically one would think the more one displayed, the greater their tolerance for pain ought to be. Interestingly, in his experience, the opposite appeared to be true.
"He must have been a notable man,"
Dane offered some explanation. He was growing weary of what seemed to be a repeat of the previous line of questions. While studying it, one symbol in particular caught his eye. One with whom he'd just observed.
He stood back and studied Aria curiously. Coincidence seemed the most likely explanation, but the embers of curiosity were stoked. "Will you ask for the same symbol to be carved into your headstone as well?"
One hand creaked within its leathery glove as he pointed out the shape, then trailed the finger accusingly at her sleeve. Dane cocked a nimble smile. "It must mean something to you. To etch it forever in your skin. Your gravestone will last much longer, after all."
He was being facetious, of course, and smiled wrinkles of smile toward his feet as he turned from her eye.
Movement, reflected on the marble slab, caught the corner of his eye. He glanced up, and casually looked behind him. Between graves, skinny trees pierced upward from the ground like spikes in a moat. Their limbs were bare, spindles reaching out for one another's touch, but found only cold, empty air. Which was as much as Dane saw. In the distance the domes of the church loomed from the monastery across the way. Perhaps a glow had caught one of those golden arcs, and shot light at just the right angle.
He shrugged it off, and instead took the path forward once more. The next site was shaped in a circle, the ground of which was littered with a carpet of carnations. At the back was a man-sized statue shaped to be sitting on a cloak-draped bench. A hound laid its head on his paws at the man's feet.
"Today was this one's birthday."
He pointed at the flowers and beckoned Aria closer. He plucked a pristine white one from the bunch, then took a great seizure of the power and offered her the present. "Come see,"
he spoke quietly.
Enhanced by the power, the eyes of a night born bird witnessed every detail about her. From the way she moved to the curls of her fingers and the furrow of her expression. How lovely she would be with that dark hair laid back on a carpet of red - formerly white - flowers.
His smile was broad and naive of what lurked in the darkness behind him. A howl, like wind, was his only warning, and what felt like the weight of the Kremlin itself fell on his shoulders. He grunted, but the howl grew in his mind, and when he fell to his knees, then his hands, he writhed as though to fling off whatever pounced on him, but the great, breathless leech clung.
He struck mindlessly toward the Power, but found to his shock, he was unable to do anything with it. "Get it off!"
He gasped.