A Different Breed of Storm

*Gargoyle I* · 06-03-2013, 06:43 PM

[Image: gargie_recokoning_by_kidrylm_writer-d63xnxj.png]

~*~

He looked at her for a while at first, watching her speak, but quickly enough the words became a little too familar. He looked away to the raging sea, hearing her still through a slightly cocked ear. His gaze never wavered, for a moment there, when she spoke of destroying and maiming, there was an oh so subtle swallow; not so much a gulp, as a choking down of his own thoughts. Yellow eyes rested first on the tortured waves, then the rocks below, then back to the skies which had grown steadily closer to the bruise-black they would soon become. He pulled his head away from the wall - the pounding still resembled the sound of a bear lumbering down a hill side, but, Gargie being Gargie, he could manage it now. He lay a bit more stately, more sphinx like, and he tried to come to terms with all he'd heard.

He was hearing her words, but... he wasn't sure. Could they really be true? Was there another out there that was... well... like him?

There was silence for a while, after the white fae spoke, but eventually in the darkness of the cave, another voice spoke, soft and rumbling and deep. "You know," said Gargoyle, "For a while, I believed I deserved to die." He wasn't talking about the cliff here. She had spoke of her past and so, now it seemed he was too. "I probably still do." The Chief gave slight twist of his head, his eyes, now beginging to glimmer in the dark, were still fixed away at some half seen horizon. "It only takes so many wolves screaming under your paws before you begin to know you're headed for hell. Keep slicing long enough after that and you begin to look forward to the flames."

Both yellow eyes, as bright as lamps and cold as glass, turned to her then. He let his silence cement the truth. Yes, he was talking about himself. Yes. He the Chief of Glaciem, had once been a cold blooded killer. No, wait, revise that, 'cold blooded' signifies a detachment, a reserve - such things hadn't applied to the wolf in those dark days. He was the pack's foremost executioner, the mob's favored entertainment when it came to the torture ring. The murder-lust, the power, the approval, he'd drank it all up until he was as blood-drunk as a devil and twice as nasty.

"That I pulled myself away... that I made it this far and changed this much... can only be called a miracle. And I never thought I'd lay eyes on another." His gaze pulled away, back to the storm. "Then again, there's always a part of me that seems to know that miracles can't happen. And that I'm only swallowing down demons, locking them away in a box that'll eventually shatter when someone pushes me too far, or I get hurt too deep."

"I'm not looking for pity or therapy," he muttered, straightening a little as though drawing himself back from this break in the mask. "I'm just curious. For one thing, what you think? Would you deserve being saved if it had been you lying on the ledge?"
~*~

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A Different Breed of Storm

Gargoyle I