Blacktail Deer Plateau the swelling of broken violins

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if he had lashed her delicacy with the scourge of his tongue, and left there a bruise upon the paleness of her innocent mind, armand did not care. the world had no sun within it, no golden rays to fruit themselves within even the mellifluous of voices, as the woman bore. yet she met his insults with a stoic countenance and settled herself with a yearning for the ugly knowledge that armand did hold locked beneath his tongue. for armand, there was no logic within him, only words sharpened by pain and unreined emotion to guide him, for this was how he had been made, how he had been reared -- the cool hungry mind of his creator had not translated into that of his own.
transcendent in his own hatred, now directed at the feather who deserved none of his ire, armand came full into his milieu, but found some scant reason with which to check himself. "there is nothing to tell. i was born. i wish to die. the content of the parts between the sum of my existence is irrelevant." and here he paused, ears wilting suddenly, the minute light gleaming from the thousand threadlike veins that gathered along the cup of his auds. "if you must know it, i was born. taken from my family and put to work in a darkened den of incense, all manner of lusts and debauchery perpetuated against my form. taken again from that by a man who shaped the filthy clay of my being into a child of hope. but i ran. i lost him, and the darkness found me. i became its king, until once more i was spat out, and here you find me now."
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