At his joy, Abigail produced a hollow smile. She looked at the gun, remembering her almost complete distrust and how she'd intended to swipe it herself from under his nose. Since then, and especially at that moment, she was more than happy to be wrong.
She refrained from shouting and spoke quietly, as calmly as she could, given the circumstances; smiling, Abby glared and leaned in ever so slightly. "Klaus, put the gun away now. You can't have that here."
Careless. I just hope the agency is looking out for him.
When her "turn" came she wished it hadn't. She made no false pretences. "I almost wish you hadn't asked. It's rubbish—my life is shit, to be honest. But it's not exactly proper to talk about. When someone says 'how are you?' you're just supposed to say 'good' or 'fine' no matter what the truth is. So it's not proper, but my life is shit and I'm torn now because I don't want to be rude with the details, but I need to talk to someone, but I'm not even sure I want to."
Slowly, he replaced the futuristic handgun in his coat, listening intently as Aensland replied. Nodding as she spoke, he waited a moment to make sure she was finished before responding.
"Don't be. Great people like us get put under a lot of pressure," he said, offering a sympathetic smile. "You ever want to talk, I'm willing to listen. I figured you might be a little on edge, what with the war between the Leagues, but rest assured, that's all under control. I helped one of the acolytes from your group take over, and I've got him reigned in - at least, he's not killing people any more, so far that I know - and we're actually going to make the world a better place."
He sat back, a prideful smile filling his face.
"My father rolls in his grave, now that I devote our resources to aiding others. There's no better feeling," he said, eyes closed. "Speaking of - if you ever need help, just ping me with this," he said, rummaging in his pocket for a small black device. He slid the rectangular object across the table to Aensland with a finger, sitting back quickly. On the box was a small yellow "smiley face" with a speaker underneath. "You helped me with something very difficult, once. Press the button, and I'll return the favor. Anytime, no questions asked," he said, grinning from ear to ear.
"War?" she echoed, not entirely of her own volition, and suddenly her desire to talk about her own problems was gone. She'd heard nothing about a war, having distanced herself from the League. Nikademus said nothing of it in their one meeting since. By his words it was clear that Klaus' idea of the League - and her relationship with its members - was completely disconnected from reality. She'd sworn her brother in herself; if Klaus had something to do with anyone gaining a seat of power, there was treachery involved and it ran directly contrary to her wishes.
A tinge of anger ran through her, though she re-steadied her mind and reminded herself that it was ignorance, not malice, that drove his actions.
But he has to know. I may not be a hero anymore but I can't just allow unscrupulous individuals to manipulate men like him. Maybe...he can make a difference.
Her expression then was conciliatory. He was so proud of "doing good," even if at times misguided...It was just like when she'd started out. Her heart told her to lighten the blow as much as possible. "Klaus, I don't know how to say this, but...there is no group for me within the League. Anyone who's told you anything of the sort is playing you and you need to stop with them immediately.
"The entire time I was with the League I was surrounded by snakes. Just about everyone wanted me dead in addition to my place as the head. The League of Shadows is full of nothing but power-hungry individuals with twisted morals or a warped sense of reality." Some part of her hurt for the fact she now counted her own chosen successor, her brother, among the same; although for him some hope remained.
"Trust me, Abigail, I know what I'm doing. It's what I was made for," he said, maintaining a smile. "The key to keeping people in check is making them think they act of their own volition. I've convinced Sparrow's League not to kill by showing them that it gives them a certain moral high ground. The good always defeat evil. That's storytelling, and life is a story," he said, chuckling.
"Even better, I've persuaded both Central Intelligence to leave you alone. We've forgiven the break-in entirely, and we're perfectly willing to harbor you if anything goes wrong - I mean, I am - but regardless, everything's fantastic. I've even brokered an unofficial peace treaty between Venezuela and America. Ivana's actually pretty nice - well, maybe not nice, but fun, in a way - I bet you two would get along well," he said with a smile. "You could even meet her, if you want. I have her on speed dial."
"—Ivana's actually...you two would get along well,"
There was a flicker of anger in her eyes, and a temptation to tell him to go to Hell as soon as she set her mind back enough to understand his words. The same woman who damaged her eye, crippled her and indirectly put her in her present position. Abby had told herself she was over it—and she really wanted to be, wanted to understand and forgive and love her enemy—but his mention and her subsequent reaction made it clear that she wasn't. As hard as she tried, it would've been impossible to mask her anger even if she wanted to.
My God, he's doing everything wrong. She stood up to leave, unable to wipe the re-formed scowl from her face. Alastair and the vehicle were not yet in sight, but that didn't matter at the time.
"I'm sorry, I'm...I have to go. Another time, maybe."
Pouting, Klaus remained seated; even the Delver of Secrets couldn't keep his emotions hidden this time.
I never took her for the jealous type, he thought, attempting to rationalize his disappointment. The scowl on Abigail's face hadn't gone unnoticed. He watched her leave, blinking.
"Are we still friends?" he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else.
Ivana's actually pretty nice - well, maybe not nice, but fun, in a way - I bet you two would get along well," he said with a smile. "You could even meet her, if you want. I have her on speed dial."
The entire time I was with the League I was surrounded by snakes. Just about everyone wanted me dead in addition to my place as the head. The League of Shadows is full of nothing but power-hungry individuals with twisted morals or a warped sense of reality.
WHAAAAATT?! Why, I never wanted you dead and tried to usurp you, while putting on a facade of a smooth talking and obsequious loyalist.
@hadrian_knightfall: I WANT THAT BLOG UP BY OH-NINE-HUNDRED HOURS ON THE DOT TOMORROW, GREENIE! THIS AIN'T YOUR MAMA'S SUMMER CAMP, YOU HEAR ME? GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS AND write
England. Once things died down in Gothic, Vincent would go back. But first, he had to meet Miss Samantha Ives. His late Uncle's secretary. She had found a buyer for Vincent's late Uncle's estate in London. Herself. Apparently, Miss Ives was well informed when it came to the late Declan Harrow's machinations. She knew what Vincent and his uncle were. She was most displeased when Vincent tried to auction off the estate. Vincent had no use for such luxury. Better to sell it and make a quick buck he though back at the time. Interestingly enough, she had prevented him from doing so. Even tried to convince Vincent to come by and stay there for a few weeks. Vincent's reply was anything but cordial.
Now, Vincent found himself strolling through the streets of London. Most people moved out of his way as they heard the slow rhythmic tapping of his cane against the pavement. His attire was simple, a pair of black jeans, a white tee, black slip ons, and a leather jacket. He was suppose to meet Miss Ives in two days from now at some garish restaurant to discuss the terms of the estate. He was early, asking people outside of the lavish restaurant details about the establishment and the area that surrounded it. Most of the people around the Dublin Devil had assumed that they were above Vincent's meager station and outright dismissed him. Claiming that they just didn't have the time. A few of the employees who had just gotten off had taken pity on the blind Cainite and gave him some of the details he had asked for.
Afterwards, Vincent had found a pub. He took a seat at the bar. "Could I get a glass of Whiskey, neat?" The glass soon appeared in front of him. Vincent lifted the glass, "Slainte." He said, ad tossed his drink back.
@_dirge_: Grif! I'm currently overloaded at the moment and I need to catch up on so much, but we should write together! Even if you're not fully back. >_> The fact that I'll be so slow and still off my game just means you don't have to unnecessarily beat yourself up the way you might do anyway!
@aria_al-sef: If I'm being honest I didn't really expect anyone to respond to this post. I was just trying to shake off some rust. But sure, when you got the time we'll write something ^_^
London was suppose to be a momentary stop. A couple of days were suppose to be spent severing that last link that Vincent had. His late family. His supposed last day was spent in a pub. The silence was deafening. Everyone's attention was focused on the tube. Gothic was gone. Vincent's home was gone. The only place that he ever felt like he belonged was gone. His body felt heavy. Vincent couldn't move. All he could do was sit in the dingy pub and listen to the voices coming from the tube discuss this unfortunate tragedy. Gothic couldn't have been gone. It was the city that endured.
"Ho..how's it look?" A stutter, he hadn't stuttered since he had been a boy and he only did it when he was scared. "I'm blind. I.....I can't see the damage. Is it really that bad?"The Blind Mamba patiently waited for somebody, anybody to answer his question.
"Like a graveyard mate." Vincent gave a sullen nod and stood to his feet. He went to get his wallet to pay for his drink and the bartender stopped him. "It's on the house. Lilly call a cab for our customer here and help him into the cab." "Thanks." Vincent's response was short. as hell back into his seat.
"I'll cover the charge," Abby called across the room from the entrance. She cast the bartender an assured nod, then her gaze fell on Vincent. "It's the least I could do. It's...well it's a start."
Stepping into the room, she approached where he'd sat, reaching into her handbag and placed an undisclosed amount in pounds on the table. She didn't count it out; she didn't need to. Whatever it was, the Aensland Heiress could afford an entire pub's worth of drinks, even for the Irish.
Her expression made a silent, likely unseen apology and she reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder. "And, if it's all the same to you, we could skip the cab too. I could have Alastair pull the car around, let's get outta here and...we could talk? I'll get you wherever you're going."
A hand out, a fluffing hand out from the one person Vincent was in no rush to ever hear speak again. He turned towards the sound of her voice. He didn't bother to hide the facial scars that Charles had given him in Venezuela.
"Of course I'd bump into ya today of all days."His tone was cold. For a moment his posture slowly softened as she placed her hand on his shoulder. A part of Vincent wanted to slap her hand away and tell her to piss off. Instead he stood up.
"You wanna talk? Fine. We'll talk. As for where we'll talk.....lady's choice."He unfolded his cane and started to walk towards the door.
Reflexively she pulled her hand away as he stood. Following briefly, she focused her attention on her phone for a short time, though she took the lead and held the door open for him.
Vincent's icy demeanour wasn't lost on her, but it seemed...natural, given all that had occurred. Where Abby stood, he might well have been upset about Gothic, or anything for that matter. She'd lashed out at her fair share of friends - maybe now former friends - in her current state.
The limousine rested just ahead of them and Abby again took the lead, knocking on the rear door before opening to give the blind man a sense for where to walk.
Vincent slowed his pace as Abigail sped up to catch the door. He paused as she opened the door for him."Thanks." He muttered as he took his leave of the establishment.
Why is she acting like this? All heartwarming and genuine. I thought it was real once. Well I wanted to believe that it was. And yet, her and Dullhamit sent me on a goddamn suicide mission in Venezuela. He even convinced me that she was dead. She had to have a part in that scheme.
"You know you don't have to treat me like an invalid Abigail."Vincent slowly followed the sound of her footsteps as she led him towards her car. He let out a sigh as she opened the door for him. He folded his telescopic cane up and slowly climbed into the back of her car.
@_dirge_: It might've been a stretch to say she was "happy," but there and then Abigail was wholly unbothered in the forefront of her mind. Her heart pumped at a steady albeit elevated pace and she wore an unfiltered smile. "Oh Vincent," she said, following him into the limousine, "I wouldn't dream of it. You're..."
She didn't finish but several pleasant thoughts came to mind as she recalled their history from the time he'd been brought to her in chains. Perhaps most prominently, her brother's treachery, into which he'd roped both of the unwitting pair, but out of which she hoped some good had come. "You're here, so does that mean you succeeded? Charlemagne...and my mum?"
"Yes, Charlemagne is dead. Your mum patched me up and got me out of Venezuela. Last I spoke to her she was knee deep in some archaeological dig site that coincided with the Aensland bloodline."Vincent didn't see much point in beating around the bush, she asked her question he answered it.
Now it was her turn. He tilted his head towards where she was in the car. "So was it your idea to tell me that you died in order to convince me to risk my life in an ill fated attempt to kill old Charley boy?" Vincent made no attempt to hide the anger in his accusation. "Or was it your brother's?"
In those moments, several feelings flickered across Abigail's emotional palette, coinciding with several rapid changes in expression. The genuine joy of hearing Emilie was not only safe but apparently able-bodied and of sound mind. (She hated to admit something good might've come from her time with Charles.) Confusion...Just what exactly was she looking for; could it be the same as Abigail's probing into the family history? And why not first contact her to establish that everything was alright?
Lastly, a measure of both annoyance and remorse washed over her. Nikademus's treachery. How could I forget? She'd started to reach out to Vincent in a conciliatory gesture, but allowed her hand to fall midway, into the seat.
"I really am sorry for all that. Vincent, you saved my mum and for that I'm grateful. You should know I'd never send anyone to kill another person, much less to handle my own personal business. But by the time I spoke with my brother he'd already set us both up. He was supposed to find them and report only to me. But even I hardly understand anything about the man, his loyalties or whatever warped sense of reality he got from his dad." Just then it occurred to her that she never secured an explanation for his supposed parentage; part of her didn't want to know at all.
"Still, I'm really glad you're all right. You were one of the few people I felt I could really trust through everything. I'm not..." A sigh. "...not exactly operating on the same frequency anymore, but if you ever need help with anything, just ask."
Vincent merely shook his head. He didn't know if Abigail was being honest or just playing him. Everyone played him. Why should this be any different. Still, he promised Emile he would try to be civil if he ever saw Abigail again."Yes. I'm well aware that your brother is one of Charlemagne's boys. Just like his twin and your half sister, Aoife. Your mum really didn't have a problem sharing information."Especially when Vincent's blood woke up that damn spear. That's the only reason she saved him.
"All right? You're glad that I'm all right?" Vincent wanted to scream at her. Instead he leaned forward, possibly crowding Abigail's personal space. At this point he didn't care. "You realize that I had the bones in both of my legs and right arm completely shattered, a blade shoved through the left side of my face, most of my ribs broken, multiple stab wounds a concussion and suffered major blood loss. Not to mention your dear old mum having to reset my broken bones when they didn't set the right way. And you're glad that I'm just all right."
God did he want a cigarette in that moment. Vincent leaned as far back as he could into his seat. His head lazily drifted towards the car window. A sigh escaped his lips. "I don't feel all right, Abigail. I feel like this is all some strange dream or nightmare. One that's going to cave in at any second. And when it does I'll wake up bleeding out in an ancient set of ruins with nothing but the corpse of Charlemagne to keep me company."
The revelation sent a jolt through her spine, tensing her entire body. Her brow furrowed but there was little time to puzzle over it. Even if there was time, he couldn't have been in the right state to answer more questions for her sake. Between mother or Nikademus, or if she could find this Aoife herself, someone had explaining to do. But for the moment Vincent was in a sensitive place, and she didn't need any extrasensory abilities to gather an instinctive empathy for how he was feeling.
Only this pure sense of understanding kept Abby from lashing out in return. He had no right to heap his blame upon her, to lash out like he had. But she let him anyway. She'd taken far worse from Kurt, and unlike him Vincent had a sense of legitimacy to his feelings. He wasn't punching down from a high horse. In the blind man's mind he was trying to slug it with a giant; but as she understood it, they stood on nearly equal footing in the gutter.
Even as he invaded her personal space, she never let her discomfort show. Took in his scars from up close, the wounds in his words along with them. Reached up to allow her hand to meet him. Fingertips hovering hardly a centimetre from his cheek before he pulled back.
"Well? What do you want from me?" She shrugged and began twisting her fingers through her hair, a persistent habit she'd unconsciously adopt when nervous or under pressure. "How could I realise all that? I'm just a girl and this is the first I've seen of you since. If I had the power that'd allow me to see all that I wouldn't have needed the help that led us here in the first place. What else can I do, except be thankful you're alive and try to support you from here on? Haven't had the easiest time myself, since..."
She trailed off. It felt dirty, playing her own card like that. But it wasn't wrong. Beyond physical damage - of which there was plenty - the former heroine's actions at Black House broke her on a deeply spiritual level. Each was as helpless as the other, and as usual Abigail would try to be just a bit less so. To be strong, and hopeful for those who couldn't for themselves.
@_dirge_: No worries! Yesterday was a blur but I'm pretty sure I was no good anyway. Either way, no stress! Just wanted to jump into something light because I like you and I was feeling it. at the time.
But really don't make me kick his behind! I'll do it!
"What do I want from you? "Vincent wanted to hear his version of the truth. That she was the mastermind who had orchestrated Charlemagne's death to play out in her favor. That she, like so many other people had used him. Instead, she pleaded or feigned innocence. He wanted someone to hate, it was so much easier to move on when you could hate something or someone. Hate could keep you alive when nothing else could. But Abigail, Abigail was hard to hate. Even for a misanthrope like Vincent.
"Since Black House." Vincent finished her sentence. She hadn't recovered. She was still broken by the events that had unfolded that day. People dealt with their guilt differently.
"You know, memories can be wicked, dangerous things. And people, well some people have a tendency to turn them over and over, until we know every touch and crack, and yet we still manage to find an edge to cut ourselves on. Day after day these kind of memories start to grow heavy. After awhile they grow so heavy they start to drag us down. Eventually we unwillingly wind them around ourselves like it's some sort of ill fitting thread. That thread has the power to become our very own noose and shroud if we allow it. I....I'm trying to sever that thread before it takes hold. I've often found hating someone as an easy way to sever said thread. I'm so use to being manipulated and played that hating the other party just comes natural for me. I want to hate you. But I don't. You ask what I want from you...there's nothing you could give me that would make any of this go away. Just like there's nothing I could say or do to help you overcome Black House." Vincent couldn't help but flash a rather sardonic smirk. "What a pair we make."
@_dirge_: "So that's it?" She stared at the floor stretching out before her, unaware that she'd even vocalised the thought at first. Nothing anyone can do? She continued turning her golden locks over in her hand. He was probably right.
"I don't really know what to say to that," she admitted. "I had...so many plans," she was almost laughing at the thought, and wondered briefly if she'd started toward hysteria, "and now I have no idea what to do with myself, at all."She shrugged her shoulders and let them slump, sighed, and fell back in the seat. She'd come to the same conclusion he had; but no matter how long ago she resigned herself to it, some part of her couldn't - or refused to - grasp that particular powerlessness.
"I didn't come here to feel better about...what happened. Not always sure I want to, to be honest. I want towant things, but even if I didn't deserve it, I am at an utter loss with my life. It is litrally impossible—when I try to look ahead to anything, I see nothing. Like I've lost both my eyes. But I don't really think that I could bring myself to end it all either."
@arquitenens: "You actually had plans? I've never really planned for anything. I'm somewhat baffled that I'm still among the living. Always thought I'd die at eighteen. And yet, here I am at twenty five. Maybe twenty six or seven. Somewhere around there. It's all a bit fuzzy." Vincent reached into his pant pockets and withdrew a pack of smokes.
Vincent just sat in silence as she spilled her heart out to him. Maybe that's what she wanted, someone who would listen to her. Not tell her what to do. Not tell her to man up and stop wallowing in self pity and doubt. The Dublin Devil placed a cigarette between his lips, but he didn't light it. He stopped smoking due to the unpredictability of his eyes. He needed all of his remaining senses sharp. It just gave Vincent's shaking hands something to do while she spoke. It wasn't his intention to interrupt or annoy her.
"Welcome to my life." The blind vagabond replied with a tilt of his head after she finished speaking. "I know, it's an annoying quirk of mine. I don't plan on lighting it. That would be rude." He gestured towards the unlit cigarette hanging between his lips. "As for what you should do, once again, I can't tell you. The only thing I can suggest is that you don't stay still. In my experience bad thoughts and memories have a way of lingering when you remain motionless. So I would move. In fact, that's probably what I'm going to do once I leave this vehicle. I mean, there's nothing for me here now. And with Gothic gone..." A wry chuckle escaped from Vincent as his head hung low. "It's all I can do."
Abby cast a wary look at the cigarette as he placed it to his lips, a brief lapse in which she'd all but forgotten his words or the entirety of the discussion itself. In her mind she'd already stopped him. "I won't have that here." She hated the smell, health implications and everything else about it, but at the same time it felt wrong to correct the vulnerable damaged man; so then it was lucky he'd restricted himself without her. She might wonder if he was psychic had she not retroactively recognised her own transparent expression.
She nodded a silent thanks and backed off, sighing. Abigail hadn't expected anything from Vincent beyond the situation with Charles and her mother—even she couldn't pinpoint a reason for speaking so openly, except maybe...
She shook the thoughts free from her head. She kept thoughts of loneliness buried most often, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore. She'd lost track of Kelly; things ended badly with Kurt and Abby was hardly interested to have another one of those encounters; Kieran was just too full of energy to tolerate and, while he remained a dear friend, it was exhausting trying to keep up being around him. She'd even been considering therapy. But though somewhat like-minded, Vincent's hopeless resignation bordered on the extreme too. Or so she hoped, half-fearing the opposite – that he was exactly right and it was only a matter of time for her. She wanted to continue pitying him, but somehow it seemed their positions reversed and he'd acquired the upper hand. It should've been innocuous enough but the quiet chortle accompanying his words was doubly haunting; in them it was as if he spoke in a second tongue intelligible only to the two of them.
"Eram quod es, eris quod sum."
A chill resonated from her heart and Abigail shuddered, holding her arms tight to her sides. "Alright," she said, eyes forward in her lap. "I'll let you off here then, if you'd like. You never specified anything so I had Alastair take us around the block a few times. So you'd know where you are.
@arquitenens: "This'll do just fine Abigail." Vincent raised his left hand and slowly started to feel around the passenger side door. He quickly deduced where the door handle was located. Now, he waited for the vehicle to stop. The moment it did, the blind vagabond would take his leave of Abigail.
There was one last thing he wanted to ask her. He wanted to ask her why she had confided in him. Surly she had people she could trust. But in that moment, Vincent remained silent. Words weren't necessary at this point. He realized that she was just as alone as he was.
As the car came to a stop. Vincent slid on his pair of sunglasses and opened the car door. "Here, if you ever need to get a hold of me." He tossed her a disposable cell. "That was suppose to be for an acquaintance in Gothic. But I'm fairly certain that he's no longer with us." There was a slight sadness in his voice as he spoke. "The first number in the phone is mine. The second is your mum's." He slowly unfolded his cane as he exited the vehicle. "Take care of yourself, Abigail." And like that, Vincent was gone.
Half-past midnight and the cemetery's grounds seemed grimmer than usual. The many trees, shrubbery and wildflowers cast their shadows in every corner. The blackness of night peeked from everywhere, and owls, perched on crooked branches, hooted here and there. Walking along the dirt path, Ezra was neither disturbed nor unnerved by his isolation. The cemetery was large, and it was empty. The air was as thick as it was ghoulish, casting an atmosphere of uneasiness. An atmosphere that the Mad Strix seemed to cut through like a hot knife through butter. His Dolce & Gabbana suit clung well to his tall frame, and as he strode, his posture eerily calm and poised, Ezra glanced at the statuary at his sides.
The Mad Strix
They were styled with an amalgamation of a Victorian and modern aesthetic. But they were waning. Some wore cracks, and many no longer had their color and were stripped to pale and tired shades of grey. "How rude", the Horned God thought, many visited the Highgate Cemetery, it was notable for some of those buried there. Ezra thought it rude that the cemetery was like any other, disheveled and ugly. That it's working staff's maintenance skills were poor. Roaming deeper into the cemetery, Ezra's arms gently caressed a bouquet of roses. Roses he'd deliberately chosen in irony, in mockery. Roses were used in celebration. What was there to celebrate in a cemetery but death? The Horned God's steps slowed and soon he was gazing upon a gravestone that read:
In Loving Memory Of Atticus Aensland
A Much Loved Husband & Father
His eyes, they seemed indifferent, and his features bore no emotion. He held no remorse or feelings of guilt for causing Atticus' death. Nor did he feel any limiting sense of concern for the wife and daughter who survived him, two women the Mad Strix now hunted. Hunted as part of an obsession that dated back to antiquity. With no one in the vicinity for him to deceive, Ezra tore off his mask of sanity, and the air about him welcomed a creeping otherness from him. Lowering the bouquet of roses by Atticus' grave, the Horned God began, his accented words carrying some sort of remorseless and depraved pleasure and amusement in poking fun at a dead man. "Yet another man killed by his wife..", he almost grinned.
"I leaked her research notes to the papers to rouse suspicion that yours was a family of mutants or mutant sympathizers. But I did so because of your wife. Because our dearest Emilie", he paused. "I had chased the blood of Gráinne for many a generation, my friend. The same blood that runs through your wife's veins... but your daughter's as well. I had set my sights on Emilie but you were an obstacle", again he paused, as if in conversation with a living man. "A shame", he continued, his voice and tone unnaturally calm. "She would have never been mine had I allowed you to live. You died not because of me... but because of her", the corners of his lips teased a faint smirk. "The angry mob gunned you down because of her research notes.. though I do suppose we share some of the credit".
"An angry mob outside your manor threatening your family... of course you, the family patriarch, would step outside to protect those you love. It was by design, my friend", the Mad Strix told, his behavior a cocktail of the cleverness and manipulative ways of demons, and the penchant for cruelty found in his fellow man. "Bribing a man is easy. Instead, I prefer to use a man's best nature against him. Clever men outwit themselves. Humble men forget themselves. Jealous men fear themselves. And strong men crush themselves.. just as you did when you strove to protect your family". The Horned God turned corruption and ruin into an art. "Now they are without their patriarch. It must be difficult... for your wife and daughter to know that you are buried in the ground".
"That worms and vermin ate your flesh. That you are now nothing more than a ragged collection of bones in a suit. A sentiment I am not certain is shared by your son. If only the blood of Gráinne was as strong in your son as it is in your wife and daughter. Ah.. I must be going", Ezra calmly and mockingly realized, glancing at his pocket watch. "I will tell your wife and daughter about the dead flowers they have left on your grave.. I will be seeing them soon. Speaking of flowers.. I hope you like the roses".
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