Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering

Ah, dear little runaway, how she amused the God with her desperate effort to escape. Escape what? He does not know. But he does watch. Drawn in by the scent so alluring to his nares, it beckons him to complete the puzzle forming in his mind. A female, blood, the sweet smell of her sweat - stricken with pain and anger. The Ivory Prince could practically taste her on his tongue. His senses were attuned to her trail like it was a life line, perfect framework following with grace and precision.

And when he saw her. Oh when he finally laid eyes on that figure, he was taken with the way she reminded him of the night sky, blue and black; cream painted with sapphire. He watched from the shadows, a phantom of stealth as his molten orbs observe her every trip and lurch. He imagined her musculature writhing instead of the steady ripple she observed as she continued moving.

She stumbles through the night, each step a testament to her stubbornness, her will to continue on. He cannot know what brought her to him, why such a striking creature is enduring the torment she is. Pain is etched upon that pale face, yet she presses on, leg broken and dragging as she goes. He was never far behind, biding his time as his insatiable curiosity urged him to know her.

As she leans against that cold stone wall, he cannot help but smile at her quick relieved breaths. Night has long fallen, and he had gathered that she might’ve been in need of a companion. So he revealed himself, easily cutting a path straight to her. The God had fixed an expression over his delightful visage, one that told of secrets she couldn’t possibly know. And when he spoke, pristine bodice coming within a few feet of her, his voice rang out like a lure; an enchantment. "Ah, my dear," Setekh purred, his voice dripping with charm. "Who dares to mar such beauty with a cruel wound?" The God purred, testing the waters of her boundaries, subtly edging closer under the guise of analyzing her leg. What a sorry thing, this pretty pretty girl. Broken, broken, but who has given her such a token? He flicked his volcanic gaze up to her own, the colors of fire swirling and swirling, hints of madness there, obsession. It was then he saw her eyes fully, like two jewels staring back at him. “Oh, how divine.” Her luck is unkind! The words fell from his maw like a prayer, a mumble as he failed to rip his gaze away from the trinkets she beheld the world with.

"He Speaks" | 'He Thinks' | The Madness