Settled under a useless, scraggly tree just outside Arcanum territory sat the world's most miserable brute. His head was bowed, water streaming off his grumpy features as he stared pointedly into the rain. Resigned to be sopping wet and miserable regardless of where he chose to plant his rump, Valentine had found himself wandering Arcanum purposeless save for the nagging suspicion that if there were gods, they had taken it upon themselves to give him the esteemed and highly desired purpose of Unhappiness. The brute sneezed, flinging drops of water and snot in all directions and briefly obscuring his vision with mist. The streams running down his face quickly resumed their endless trickle, the thickest of which left his chin in a single, solid line. Valentine's ears would flick, spritzing already soaked ground with the renegade drops that had chosen to invade them. He wished for a reprieve. Pointed gaze would rise momentarily as the crack of thunder broke across the sky. His ears would swivel, following the thunder as it ricocheted and came back to him, and then he'd resume his hunched position. Something had to give and while he was the living embodiment of wretchedness, Valentine had no plans to admit defeat. The weather would give. It was only a matter of time. "Speaking" Thinking

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? her surroundings are ominous, cloaked in the perpetual shadow of gloom and canopied by foreboding clouds that constantly threaten to burst at the seams. and while the humidity of summer lingers in the atmosphere, the biting chill of approaching autumn grows prominent by the day -- severe winds raking their spindly fingers through pallid fur, clawing at her battered flesh with whispered promises of impending tribulation. yet the tyrant queen remains undeterred by the sinister shift in the weather and climate of her domain, abandoning the security of her unsullied crypt in favor of the ultimate chaos that unfolds in every nook and cranny surrounding it. unforgiving pellets of rain hammer against the skewed slopes of her ascended skull, mismatched amethyst and silver gaze narrowed in a pitiful attempt to conserve the clarity of her vision as she navigates through the island?s devastation, her infamously wry grin engraved into the marred premises of her dampened countenance while she observes the surrounding havoc with avid pupils. thunder incessantly bellows overhead as streams of lightning infiltrate the darkness with fleeting luminosity, providing the elysius deity with a menacing backdrop that quite perfectly compliments the malevolent aura shrouding her cruel entity. and she thrives within the ruthless scenery as any tyrant queen would -- her gait immaculate, powerful as she ravages the muddied earth with heavy strides, a destination secured within the pestilent chasms of her mind as his familiar behemoth physique encumbers her vision. water cascades down the front of her visage and her nostrils flare to expel the droplets as she approaches the wallowing blue boy, decadent incisors exposed with the sardonic smirk she presents him with. ?aren?t you the most pitiful sight,? is the saccharine croon that confidently streams from velvet lips as she regards him with a quirked brow, robust appendages ceasing to propel her any further towards him once she had breached the area a mere five feet away from where he now sulks like the overgrown child he is.

Another peal of thunder would cleave the air, sending invisible fingers down to rattle the contents of his ribcage. The approach of the unnamed intruder would go unnoticed until her honeyed voice reached his ears; the steady pounding of rain enough to murder all background noise. Upon realizing that he wasn't alone, the boy's head would cant to the side to lift a studying eye. The voice that reached his ears didn't immediately stir up memories, but the sight of her did. A ghost of a wry smile would pull up the corners of his mouth as he regarded the femme. He straightened and with a sudden shake of his head, dispelled the water that had soaked into his features. He was left with a spiked mane. Considering her words, the tone with which they were delivered felt false to him, and yet, with the heavens fit to drown him and the terra wholly unappealing, he was suddenly inspired by her derision to go a lighter route. One side of his mouth would rise higher before lazily delivered words were set free. "Few things in this weather retain their appeal." "Speaking" Thinking