[ There's some irony to the fact that Mordrake is similarly used to upholding authority in his interactions with his lost souls. Though he prefers a gentler, more dignified touch, he has done his share of manhandling, when necessary. ....When the demon's authority is questioned, for It is the true master here, even above his own power.
There are times that flickers of his own madness leak through, flashes of something manic in the cool pale glint of his eye. But what happens here is— another dose of unexpected stun, when the girl snatches her wrist back and pounces against him like an animal, with surprising and horrible force.
The spirit's almost too shocked to be angry, though this is certainly a first. Though the tangible form he's able to maintain is solid and real to the touch, he could whisk himself away again if desired, fade like the ghost that he is, reappear elsewhere, but he doesn't, not yet. He stays where he is, crystal stare locked onto the child perched atop him like a cat. The demon, its hiding place knocked somewhat askew from the fall, laughs to him in its soft, hellish wheeze; this is more excitement than its seen in quite some time. It compels him to listen, to hear out what the delightfully feral child wishes of him — and when it comes, Mordrake gives a soft and short exhale, brows sharply arched. ]
You would recruit me, child? [ Another irony — isn't he meant to do the recruiting? He gathers souls to his side. He is no solider, there is no war, but he comes for allegiance, in his way. Those taken become his, forever.
At last there is an abrupt flicker of anger, something that ripples through him, flares his nostrils, and he opens his mouth to admonish the arrogance of the thought that she could demand anything of him — but stops, just as abruptly. Eyes sweep to the side and downwards, mouth held in a frown, frozen for a moment. The second voice whispers feverishly to him; he listens, as he must. Then, eyes slowly returning to the child, narrowing slightly, thoughtfully— ]
....Tell me more about this war. If you are to request assistance from me, then I must know what truths you speak of. I do not follow the same rules of your realm; I have my own, and I am its commandant.
no subject
There are times that flickers of his own madness leak through, flashes of something manic in the cool pale glint of his eye. But what happens here is— another dose of unexpected stun, when the girl snatches her wrist back and pounces against him like an animal, with surprising and horrible force.
The spirit's almost too shocked to be angry, though this is certainly a first. Though the tangible form he's able to maintain is solid and real to the touch, he could whisk himself away again if desired, fade like the ghost that he is, reappear elsewhere, but he doesn't, not yet. He stays where he is, crystal stare locked onto the child perched atop him like a cat. The demon, its hiding place knocked somewhat askew from the fall, laughs to him in its soft, hellish wheeze; this is more excitement than its seen in quite some time. It compels him to listen, to hear out what the delightfully feral child wishes of him — and when it comes, Mordrake gives a soft and short exhale, brows sharply arched. ]
You would recruit me, child? [ Another irony — isn't he meant to do the recruiting? He gathers souls to his side. He is no solider, there is no war, but he comes for allegiance, in his way. Those taken become his, forever.
At last there is an abrupt flicker of anger, something that ripples through him, flares his nostrils, and he opens his mouth to admonish the arrogance of the thought that she could demand anything of him — but stops, just as abruptly. Eyes sweep to the side and downwards, mouth held in a frown, frozen for a moment. The second voice whispers feverishly to him; he listens, as he must. Then, eyes slowly returning to the child, narrowing slightly, thoughtfully— ]
....Tell me more about this war. If you are to request assistance from me, then I must know what truths you speak of. I do not follow the same rules of your realm; I have my own, and I am its commandant.