10-23-2018, 10:15 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11px; color;"] "I know the world is bad. That it does a lot of really mean and nasty things to people."
If Agathe hadn't known better, perhaps she might have laughed in Clementine's face, informing the child that she looked upon a wicked creature who would eventually seize immortality and maybe even more. She was wicked and despicable and had committed more atrocities than she could count and yet, she was entirely unfazed by her actions. Why would she feel remorse? Why would she permit herself to be haunted by past misdeeds? She could let that inkling of guilt that rolled like a freshly lit flame in her chest extinguish and revel in her own terribleness and be perfectly content- happy (as fragile as a concept as that was) even.
But Agathe did know better and recognized that she no longer wished to achieve an endless life but maybe... just maybe... redemption. And so she nodded in consideration of the child's words, her expression still unnaturally soft. A child of peace seized by war... Yes, that was what Agathe had been. But here, she was free. Free to be herself and act like the person she was - had always been - at her core. She supposed in that regard, she and Clem were similar. Held back by her own body, the girl that stood before her probably only desired a moment's worth of freedom, just enough to forget her circumstances. She couldn't blame her. Would never blame her. And maybe that was why the smile that ever so briefly curled her ebony lips was the most genuine portrayal of emotion that Agathe had ever expressed.
"It's still dangerous, witchling," She countered finally, voice low. She no longer possessed any interest in reprimanding Clem, not when she had already agreed to accompany her to wherever she might want to go, "And by the looks of it, you have no training." The latter part of her words were not intended to insult but merely state the obvious. There was no denying her sickly upbringing and Agathe didn't need to be told anything more about Clem to understand that she most likely lacked physical strength. If faced with this notorious little murderer, there was no way she'd make it out alive.
Why did that thought make her blood boil?
She resisted the urge to hiss and instead focused her attention on what else the child had to say, nodding along absently to her words before she asked about her cloak. The acquisition of her most beloved position was far from a tale for a little girl, the cloak's history stained in blood that was not that same scarlet, but deep blue. Agathe possessed no interest in haunting her nightmares and ruining her perception of her, so she merely flashed her teeth and lifted a corner of the fabric for her to see better.
"It was a gift from a witch. I was granted special permission by my grandmother - my matron - and permitted to wear it as well as my iron bracers. Our rules and traditions are followed without question where I come from but because I was..." She trailed off, searching for a moment for the right word. Obviously, she couldn't reference the murder outwardly. "Given it rightfully, she could not refuse me." Yes, she supposed that that sounded appropriate enough- and hardly suspicious. Good.
"Shall we get a move on?"
If Agathe hadn't known better, perhaps she might have laughed in Clementine's face, informing the child that she looked upon a wicked creature who would eventually seize immortality and maybe even more. She was wicked and despicable and had committed more atrocities than she could count and yet, she was entirely unfazed by her actions. Why would she feel remorse? Why would she permit herself to be haunted by past misdeeds? She could let that inkling of guilt that rolled like a freshly lit flame in her chest extinguish and revel in her own terribleness and be perfectly content- happy (as fragile as a concept as that was) even.
But Agathe did know better and recognized that she no longer wished to achieve an endless life but maybe... just maybe... redemption. And so she nodded in consideration of the child's words, her expression still unnaturally soft. A child of peace seized by war... Yes, that was what Agathe had been. But here, she was free. Free to be herself and act like the person she was - had always been - at her core. She supposed in that regard, she and Clem were similar. Held back by her own body, the girl that stood before her probably only desired a moment's worth of freedom, just enough to forget her circumstances. She couldn't blame her. Would never blame her. And maybe that was why the smile that ever so briefly curled her ebony lips was the most genuine portrayal of emotion that Agathe had ever expressed.
"It's still dangerous, witchling," She countered finally, voice low. She no longer possessed any interest in reprimanding Clem, not when she had already agreed to accompany her to wherever she might want to go, "And by the looks of it, you have no training." The latter part of her words were not intended to insult but merely state the obvious. There was no denying her sickly upbringing and Agathe didn't need to be told anything more about Clem to understand that she most likely lacked physical strength. If faced with this notorious little murderer, there was no way she'd make it out alive.
Why did that thought make her blood boil?
She resisted the urge to hiss and instead focused her attention on what else the child had to say, nodding along absently to her words before she asked about her cloak. The acquisition of her most beloved position was far from a tale for a little girl, the cloak's history stained in blood that was not that same scarlet, but deep blue. Agathe possessed no interest in haunting her nightmares and ruining her perception of her, so she merely flashed her teeth and lifted a corner of the fabric for her to see better.
"It was a gift from a witch. I was granted special permission by my grandmother - my matron - and permitted to wear it as well as my iron bracers. Our rules and traditions are followed without question where I come from but because I was..." She trailed off, searching for a moment for the right word. Obviously, she couldn't reference the murder outwardly. "Given it rightfully, she could not refuse me." Yes, she supposed that that sounded appropriate enough- and hardly suspicious. Good.
"Shall we get a move on?"
[font=arial][color=#510205][size=16pt]WATCH IT [i]GROW[/i], CHILD OF WAR
[align=center][div style="margin-top: -9px; font-size: 10pt"][color=black][font=helvetica]agathe ashyver | the ascendants | astral seraph | tags