[The words change, somewhat, but the message, focused and intense, remains utterly the same. It's so thoroughly sure that it wants suffering and death that L can't help but wonder if he wants it, to, so that he can repeat something to someone else with such certainty.
There's a kind of comfort to the repetition of the locusts. There's a kind of comfort to knowing that one is right, and feeling it in one's bones (or exoskeleton). The certainty, and the peace of acceptance to follow, and for a moment his steps start to falter.
He might even take a moment to kneel on the teeming ground, but the sudden eruption of the red-haired man sends him reeling back, compensating with his balance in the other direction entirely. His hands curl against his chest in shock and revulsion; he doesn't reach out to help, and by the time it occurs to him, the man has already vanished.
It takes real willpower to move forward, but acceptance quails in the face of that kind of pain and death. He treads gently and with no small amount of trepidation towards Iskierka's open arms, because certainty, now, is probably the only thing that can get them through, or at least pretty staunch confidence. Perhaps the fact that she is merely a part of something whole allows her to guide with as much, and he allows the embrace, resting his head against shoulder, or carapace.
He doesn't listen. He wears her like a pair of earmuffs, and walks. He keeps his eyes wide open; as unpleasant as the sights and the skulls and the tombstones are, amid writhing masses of endless deadly consumption, the sound of that voice is so much worse. The sight allows him to keep walking, in fact motivates him to walk even faster so that more locusts are behind him post-haste.
He feels that something is changing behind him, and starts to turn to look... but the horizon before him demands his attention. His breath catches, and those stars stand out vibrant red in the liquid dark of his eyes.]
Omen?
[He's never been told Iskierka's name, and it feels wrong to use Lycka's, even if it comes the most naturally to him.]
no subject
There's a kind of comfort to the repetition of the locusts. There's a kind of comfort to knowing that one is right, and feeling it in one's bones (or exoskeleton). The certainty, and the peace of acceptance to follow, and for a moment his steps start to falter.
He might even take a moment to kneel on the teeming ground, but the sudden eruption of the red-haired man sends him reeling back, compensating with his balance in the other direction entirely. His hands curl against his chest in shock and revulsion; he doesn't reach out to help, and by the time it occurs to him, the man has already vanished.
It takes real willpower to move forward, but acceptance quails in the face of that kind of pain and death. He treads gently and with no small amount of trepidation towards Iskierka's open arms, because certainty, now, is probably the only thing that can get them through, or at least pretty staunch confidence. Perhaps the fact that she is merely a part of something whole allows her to guide with as much, and he allows the embrace, resting his head against shoulder, or carapace.
He doesn't listen. He wears her like a pair of earmuffs, and walks. He keeps his eyes wide open; as unpleasant as the sights and the skulls and the tombstones are, amid writhing masses of endless deadly consumption, the sound of that voice is so much worse. The sight allows him to keep walking, in fact motivates him to walk even faster so that more locusts are behind him post-haste.
He feels that something is changing behind him, and starts to turn to look... but the horizon before him demands his attention. His breath catches, and those stars stand out vibrant red in the liquid dark of his eyes.]
Omen?
[He's never been told Iskierka's name, and it feels wrong to use Lycka's, even if it comes the most naturally to him.]