Greatwater Lake She’s betting on science

The storm of his aura would intoxicate, swelling in intensity, liquid umbra coursed through shadow-forged veins. Heeding the grandmaster’s words, wordless himself, only a distant plashing of lake-water beseeched to break this steady heave of words; nature’s imploring. Of brute strength, audacious in command – puissant, yet strength alone would not grant virtuosity, however sinister.

“Pretty words can hold power, if you know your subject,” the corpse-king voiced, thunderous tongue and shivering wind. He did not, could not, disagree with the man, pock-marked and battle-worn, yet with aptitude there was more to attain – potential for greater. Donovan began to lure, then, casting his words like bygone keys, as though he might unlock somehow a window into the reaper’s mind. No. Black lip curled, with amusement or intrigue, tongue shifted behind the guard of keen incisors. 

“Nothing I have not earned,” he mused, ever watching, hiemal luminescence poured from the blinding portals of his gaze; guarded, unfathomable. A whisper of wind, and he prowled, mastering phantom grace, toward the brindled saint. "I think, however..." he slithered forth, a snake from the undergrowth, embracing the space beside the brute’s cheek; beguiling.

 “I could be of use to you. And you, to me.”