When it came to him, he was the kind of man that loved, and well. There was nothing he wouldn't do, come Hell or high water. But he was a two-sided coin; he did not contradict himself, though he led two very separate lives when it came to personal affairs and those of business.
Those that tried to cross that very broad line he laid out were not going to like his response. He wasn't a combative but he was a warrior. A violent, sadistic man with a twisted, warped heart when it came to those that could not leave well enough alone.
There was one person who wanted to test that line and that man was about to find out that race and status and disease were not enough to overcome the capacity of dynamic evils that he could realize. It was always the same with him; the farmboy look and unruly, disheveled appearance. People never accepted that he was so much more than they could imagine him. That was their weakness, he knew, and this person who wanted to play with cards undealt was in for a surprise.
He knew that the manwhore was in need of shoving his furry dick in anything that's female and receptive...and from what information flowed his way, even when they weren't. Now that there was a pseudo-romance in his life, one that felt and looked promising, he was not going to take his chances, especially when the term Nemesis came to mind. Nemesis: an agent or act of retribution or punishment, personified by an unconquerable foe.
The fact that this rutting slag of a mutt was beginning to realize that there was something left unsaid. The damned man was going to let his pride get in the way and cross into hallowed grounds. That was unacceptable, and he must be dealt with as quickly and effectively as possible.
Already, though, the conversation with the skittish girl was roiling in his mind, and as he walked down the road in the thundering rain, he saw what he always saw when he jacked into his information network. Words and phrases, images and expressions were like fireflies for him, dancing in the air and willing to be picked. They were pieces of a puzzle to him, and every time the lass spoke, he filed away the relevant and made certain that every piece of logical deduction was made from what he learned from her, he sapped her memory and will without remorse.
She knew so many things, delicious and tantalizing giblets of information that he found himself oddly aroused by it. He knew that he would burn her out and break her down, and more than likely she would die because of it, but that was part of the cost. He would have to be careful with her, though. She was like a sponge, and that kind of trait was hard to find in a person. Maybe he would train her to hone this...no, for now that would be too risky. There was no sense in wasting something needlessly; to sacrifice a person for an unjust cause only created martyrs, and Seahaven had no need of any more.
Through the slums towards the market district, he Sees the intricate, divining the subtleties from the actions and words of others, tying and looping them together in his mind until they form a gargantuan web of whispers.
It was because of the fragile girl that he was able to devise a beginning action that would, when put into motion, nullify the halo-haired bastard's reactions. Let him know just how useless he would be when faced with the tide of moblike mentality. Let him try to hide behind the skirts of a soon-to-be disowned lord. Even Cymur's pet will turn his way and ask for aid, and if not there are a few levers to pull that would trip his interest. With interest comes focus, and focus can be controlled. Fan the fanaticism within him...and there is nothing left to do but aim and release.
Whispers sang as he moved on.
The people who sling back and around to another was amazing. All he had to do was gather a few more pieces and lay them out accordingly. Animosity was a wonderful ally to one like him. He could use it. The Lost One had begun to find herself through the Truth of others; it was a shame that most people never bothered to discern the difference between Truth and Fact. The former was based on perception, the latter was objective, solid and backed by unwavering evidence.
It seemed to him, though, that before her rendezvous with Fate, ill will had sewn the seeds of hatred. His need to fuck every piece of ass had, inevitably, put him in direstraits.
Everything was coming together, but the more he knew, the more he was capable of effecting larger audiences with his actions. Actions that were nothing more than a whispered word here and there. Rumors knew how to consume people, and he was there to make sure that emotional distress would crescendo at the most opprotune moment.
Those that tried to cross that very broad line he laid out were not going to like his response. He wasn't a combative but he was a warrior. A violent, sadistic man with a twisted, warped heart when it came to those that could not leave well enough alone.
There was one person who wanted to test that line and that man was about to find out that race and status and disease were not enough to overcome the capacity of dynamic evils that he could realize. It was always the same with him; the farmboy look and unruly, disheveled appearance. People never accepted that he was so much more than they could imagine him. That was their weakness, he knew, and this person who wanted to play with cards undealt was in for a surprise.
He knew that the manwhore was in need of shoving his furry dick in anything that's female and receptive...and from what information flowed his way, even when they weren't. Now that there was a pseudo-romance in his life, one that felt and looked promising, he was not going to take his chances, especially when the term Nemesis came to mind. Nemesis: an agent or act of retribution or punishment, personified by an unconquerable foe.
The fact that this rutting slag of a mutt was beginning to realize that there was something left unsaid. The damned man was going to let his pride get in the way and cross into hallowed grounds. That was unacceptable, and he must be dealt with as quickly and effectively as possible.
Already, though, the conversation with the skittish girl was roiling in his mind, and as he walked down the road in the thundering rain, he saw what he always saw when he jacked into his information network. Words and phrases, images and expressions were like fireflies for him, dancing in the air and willing to be picked. They were pieces of a puzzle to him, and every time the lass spoke, he filed away the relevant and made certain that every piece of logical deduction was made from what he learned from her, he sapped her memory and will without remorse.
She knew so many things, delicious and tantalizing giblets of information that he found himself oddly aroused by it. He knew that he would burn her out and break her down, and more than likely she would die because of it, but that was part of the cost. He would have to be careful with her, though. She was like a sponge, and that kind of trait was hard to find in a person. Maybe he would train her to hone this...no, for now that would be too risky. There was no sense in wasting something needlessly; to sacrifice a person for an unjust cause only created martyrs, and Seahaven had no need of any more.
Through the slums towards the market district, he Sees the intricate, divining the subtleties from the actions and words of others, tying and looping them together in his mind until they form a gargantuan web of whispers.
It was because of the fragile girl that he was able to devise a beginning action that would, when put into motion, nullify the halo-haired bastard's reactions. Let him know just how useless he would be when faced with the tide of moblike mentality. Let him try to hide behind the skirts of a soon-to-be disowned lord. Even Cymur's pet will turn his way and ask for aid, and if not there are a few levers to pull that would trip his interest. With interest comes focus, and focus can be controlled. Fan the fanaticism within him...and there is nothing left to do but aim and release.
Whispers sang as he moved on.
The people who sling back and around to another was amazing. All he had to do was gather a few more pieces and lay them out accordingly. Animosity was a wonderful ally to one like him. He could use it. The Lost One had begun to find herself through the Truth of others; it was a shame that most people never bothered to discern the difference between Truth and Fact. The former was based on perception, the latter was objective, solid and backed by unwavering evidence.
It seemed to him, though, that before her rendezvous with Fate, ill will had sewn the seeds of hatred. His need to fuck every piece of ass had, inevitably, put him in direstraits.
Everything was coming together, but the more he knew, the more he was capable of effecting larger audiences with his actions. Actions that were nothing more than a whispered word here and there. Rumors knew how to consume people, and he was there to make sure that emotional distress would crescendo at the most opprotune moment.
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