Hideaway Strath A Test Of Faith.

sliding in here a little late - forgive me for this post i am half asleep

Irony, he thought – the silencer was no saint, by any true definition of the word. The call that pierced his solitude would have been easy to disregard, if not for the sinister lilt rising from the caverns of the grandmaster’s throat, the veiled velvet strung like liquid gold upon his song; minacious. And before that – an ugly, wretched cry, languid and death-ridden.

Glissading through the undergrowth, he was silverlight; ghostly. Umbral cloaks and corpse-pelt masked the behemoth beneath, accursed in disposition – the wind seemed to cry at his nape, as though trembling at his touch. Hastening across auburn earth and ignoring the moulding of frigid dirt at his step, at last he emerged from thicket and shadow, only to alight an otherworldly gaze upon the growing concourse as Donovan’s prideful speech came to a close.

There were the saints, and there were not.

Cast in a tracing of ink, a sudden bestrewing of shrieks erupted from the clearing, and at once it became all too clear what was occurring – nothing short of a game, a display of the grandmaster’s dissolving sanity; erupting from his skull, bleeding from his tongue. Aries had no qualm with murder, had no qualm with violence, and yet for once he made no move to join the savagery. His allegiance was not sworn to Donovan, nor to the Saints; his allegiance was to the night, and the night alone.

Ruinous; wordless. He placed himself somewhere between the grey woman and the dragoness, phantom-still. His faith need not be tested, and he was reminded starkly once more that this frenzied cult of criminals was not, would never be, Blackfeather.

He would not kill for them.