Philosophy

[Guest]

Ciliegians were world-renowned for being artisans, fine with whatever craft they chose to dabble in; but above all else, Ayden had always found their architecture simply amazing. Churches, especially. Tiling, pews, altars, platforms, basins... even the most basic of functional furniture and equipment adorned to the highest of costs.

And all in the name of what Ayden considered to be a false God.

Nevertheless, the silver-haired assassin stepped into the quiet environment of the church on this January morning, humming to himself quietly as he took a seat on the pew, and listened to a sermon. He listened, he listened, and he listened. He soaked up all the glorified political bullshit that these people needed to hear as 'faith', or perhaps a control mechanism.

Ayden had always taken a stance similar to this - bitter and usually cynical in nature - on religion. It was good for enslaving the masses, and good for branding conmen and criminals as holy men. It put people into occupation, and it gave people something to do with their lives when they felt lost. That was good and proper. But religious texts, dated as they were, held the people following them to stupid, stupid oaths and rules.

It was more than sheep following a prophet; it was something totally and completely different. It was binding, taking humanity from entities otherwise artistic and free. It was clipping a bird's wings and dropping it into a pool of oil so it would never fly again. He believed that religion held back artistic souls; those with a will, a need, to create masterpieces, such as he. Without religion in this world, death would flow freely. And that was beautiful, an image and an ideal for the silver-haired assassin kneeling and bowing his head in false prayer.

Religion... religion was a restraint. He could tell that people, especially the monks and priests dotted around the church, silent in prayer as the chimes of an organ washed over them, the ambience of bird chittering outside atop a stained glass dome sitting watch over a tower, could see the aura around him. They could smell it, taste it, hear it. He was not just an outsider, but a 'violent' man.

And what had lead them to view this negatively? Why, religion. He, an artist, a pioneer, was repressed in a nation of artisans because of this control mechanism. It was truly sad. The man considered 'freeing' them all from this blight there and then; but, oh, no, that would rub it too far in the face of a hypothesised God formulated by century-old wicked conmen. King Herod was a strategist, and, yet, his very image was cast down as one of 'unholiness' in texts.

However... he had something that he had to say. Despite his cold-hearted attitude towards the very idea of religion, his leather-clad fingertips went to the warm skin of his pale neck; dug beneath layers of black fabric, and isolated a chain. A silver chain, well-hidden amidst it all. With a simple finger movement, he unhooked the links, and carefully, oh-so-carefully, removed the locket, taking it into plain view, and wrapping it around his hand, the face of the small chrome oval pressed gently against his knuckles as he rose white-pink lips down to brush it.

"Requiem in pace," He whispered, before repeating that same phrase, those three damning, ominous words, moisture coming up at the corner of his eyes. "Requiem in pace," Once more. "Requiem in pace," And again. "Requiem in pace,"

It wasn't long before the assassin, a hunter, a prowler, and a scientist, was reduced to this. Catatonia. Rocking back and forth as he almost sobbed, a charred heirloom wrapped around his hand as he repeated the same three Latin words over and over and over and over and over and over... "Requiem in pace,"

[Lily Rosario]

When Lily had been offered an opportunity to go to Cilligia to give a sermon, she had practically DIED. It was indeed an honor for her to be given that chance, and she had been rather excited. Not only was it rare that Cilligian churches requested foreign priests to preach, but Lily was, in the eyes of the public, anyways, a woman. And even though the Caelist religion accepted female priests, it was not very common, and their were some people who didn't agree with it. But, of course, Lily didn't really care, so long as she got to be there. And, after a short flight to Cilligia, easily enough done from Creta, she had arrived, and was ready to deliver the sermon.

[INSERT SERMON HERE; I'm an artist/writer, not a priest! xD]

As Lily wrapped up the sermon, people began filing out, apparently satisfied with her words. As soon as everybody had lef- huh? Eh... Apparently, not everybody HAD left... There was some dude crying in a pew, clutching something in his hands... Okay, either he was crazy, her sermon was THAT. AWESOME., or that first option. Sooo... Lily just sort of stood around, waiting for him to say something, other than mumbling in some unknown language...

[Guest]

"Requiem in pace, requiem in pace, requiem in pace..." It was heating up now. His skin reddening. His touch burning, the metal a frozen mass even with the leather between skin and surface. Sweat, gathering all round his body. Trousers, shirt, jacket, sticking to his skin. The hairs on the back of his neck brought upright like thousands of tiny little soldiers.

---

"Papa!" A tiny boy, albino. Silver-haired. Pale, harsh grey irises. Dead of colour. Maybe three years old. Sitting amidst chaos; overturned toys, track, books. Puddles of bitter, strong-smelling liquid. A woman, clothed only in a bloody bedsheet, mascara running, face dotted with purple and green; with bruises and scars and marks and tears and scotch and...

A hacking cough. The woman sobs some more; weak, pale little thing, her child sobbing nearby for no reason whatsoever. His crying escalates, reaching a crescendo, despite its softness; the woman hushes him, inching the door shut, moving closer on all fours, desperately clutching the bedsheet as if it would offer some sort of protection. Edging closer. Fear, true fear in her eyes. Not of death, but of harm. Not of her harm, but his-

"SHUT THAT FUCKING KID UP!" Slurred; the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke musty from downstairs. The boy only screams louder, his wailings prompting the woman to move closer and draw the door shut. She is young; under forty, probably under thirty, but life has aged her so; wrinkled and bruises have done little to assist her beauty.

She moves close, humming a tune that he now knows so well... but no matter how much she rocks him gently to comfort him, his wailings never cease. A growl turns to a roar; the clatter of wood, the smashing of glass. The sound of leather ripping, a belt buckle jangling, heavy-set footsteps on the stairs...

---

"Requiem... in pace..." Tired, exhausted so, the man stepped to his feet, seemingly having broken out of his trance. In an instant, as if it was almost ritualistic and instinctive to him, he raised the chain around his bare neck, and connected it. Looking from side to side, Ayden tucked the locket back beneath his many clothes, obscuring even the glint of the chrome wiring and connection from the harsh Cerisian sunlight.

With a sigh, he strained the leather back over his hands, and swatted the tears from his eyes, taking a long sniff to draw the pain back, bottle it inside him. With the strongest, most primal of urges inside the man, there always came sadness. Leagues of it, a ton for every ounce of hate. It was his trigger; and yet the makings of his very life.

Falsifying a grin, he looked towards the small girl. He smiled, before speaking quietly, in a hushed tone, slumping backwards against the pew, legs swung out to the side. Fluttering eyelids, absolutely spent from the entire ordeal, despite the sermon having finished now minutes ago, he unleashed a long, dry, huff of a sigh. The weakest of smiles on his face, reddened eyes, lustrous blue orbs, he looked up to the child-like figure.

"Little one," He said, not caring whether she understood or not. "You know not a thing..."

[Lily Rosario]

Lily, always the curious one, studied this man for a little while as he seemed to be going through some sort of mental breakdown. The only thing he was able to mutter was, "Requiem in Pace... Hmm," which Lily repeated quietly to herself, pondering what it meant. As one who had attended college, and one who had recieved the best schooling available in the world, Lily was nonetheless confused by this unknown language... Put simply, she wondered what it meant. Perhaps she would ask him. Seemed to be the apropos time to do so, as he seemingly awoke from his state of mind, mentally rejoining the realm of the present, and where people existed. Yet as she was about to speak, he spoke first. And what he said didn't so much insult Lily,as it probably should have, under all normal circumstances, but it did pique her curiosity once more. Simply the fact that he stated such a thing from out of the blue made it all the more mysterious... "How do you figure? Anything in specific that I should know?" As she spoke, she carried on studying the man, wondering what was happening within the confines of his brain...

[Guest]

"Requiem in Pace... Hmm," The man sighed, shaking his head. Little did she know; of all things, she had proved his last statement right in many respects. The girl was odd; short, petite, strange build for a nineteen year old, but Ayden had seen many a thing in his precious few years of sight which easily rivalled and trumped her visage. It was the first time since his collapsed that he'd acknowledged and analysed her specifically against the backdrop of the church; snapping back into reality proper s the tears dried into naught but salty, reddened, irritant marks at the corner of the assassin's eyes, he sighed again.

"Requiem in pace," He re-iterated, as an explanation now, before offering a definition in Amestrian. "Rest in peace, rest in peace, rest in peace... whichever language takes your fancy. It's Latin, though." He stayed silent after that. He presumed she wouldn't know of Latin itself thanks to the hideously elusive nature of the actual language and those who taught more than a simple excerpt; even the most scholarly of intellectuals still had a tough time collecting accurate texts to compare and contrast, and even then, terminology when translated into modern languages...

It was dead. It was the forerunner of most Caelist religious texts, but it was dead. Nobody had even considered using the language in years. It still cropped up from time to time in medicinal matters and forming Cretan, amongst a few other languages, but aside from being known as ancient Cerisian, it was just... pointless. It had no alternative dialects, such as Rouenian or Aerugese; it wasn't even rare, like Ishvallan. Just... dead. The precious few Latin texts Ayden had come across had been quickly memorised, and over years he had developed and honed his 'assassin's prayer', as well as devoting catatonic moments, similar to the seizure-like experience he'd just gone through, to a lost, faded spirit of a loved one with incessant, rambling chanting...

But enough dwelling on the linguistic side of things, for now, anyway. The girl queried him once more; Ayden looked her up and down again. Something didn't sit right. "How do you figure? Anything in specific that I should know?" Dryly chuckling, the man pondered for a moment, looking up through the glass dome of the tower, and staring out at a passing, fleeting murder of crows nearby. Nature. It had a cruel sense of irony, similar to fate. Perhaps the pair were siblings, or maybe even married in their similarities when it came down to it.

How to take her question, though? Flip it? Deflect it? Dodge it, and begin talking of relevant matters that it could possibly pertain to? "Much, much, much... so much for everyone to know. Art, music, fine wines, food, plays, books," Leaping to his feet in an almost savage movement, the man crouched, arcing his back in an almost vulture-like movement so their heads were barely a foot away from each other. "Pain," He inched closer. "Torture," And again. "Murder," Their noses almost touching. "Death." The damning finality of that last word as his eyes lit up with a primal sparkle, the very glee of bloodlust hidden deep within the lustre of his blue irises.

In a moment, the man jerked his body back in an almost larger-than-life fashion, and in a complete mimicry of dancing, he swayed elegantly from side to side, humming an almost perfect accompaniment; a waltz. "The art of death, my dear child! The art of death! You may know what you think to be little or great of it, but your experience of it pales to mine! I can smell it, see it, taste it, sense it, hear it, thick enough that I can almost touch it!" He snapped out of his trance-like dance, giggling like a giddy child. "The art of death," He repeated. Almost a whisper on the January breeze, the words spilled out as his expression dropped and his grin became less gleeful and happy, and more dry, sadistic, and macabre...

[Lily Rosario]

The man appeared to wake from his trance as Lily spoke, more or less to herself, the strange new words he'd spoken. As he defined the words for her, she nodded slowly in understanding. Requiem in Pace. Rest in Peace. She would remember that... "Latin... I heard about it before, but I've never been able to get any texts to learn any of the language. " Of course, now that Lily knew what the words meant, she was still rather curious as to why he said them. Rest in peace... That would imply someone had died... Who died, then? Finishing that thought, his voice took her to her next ones.

As he spoke at first, she didn't really know how to respond to his answer. She knew a fair amount about the things he said, such as art and music. But before she could say something, he started inching closer, speaking darker, more sinister words as he did so. Pain, torture, murder, and death... Such a violent combination of letters. As they came nose to nose, Lily smiled. In a whisper, intended to give dramatic finesse, Lily said, "Y'know, I actually like to make a little death happen on occasion..." Ayden stepped back after that, proceeding to dance a little, before speaking again. Laughing a light laugh, Lily grinned mischievously and pointed at Ayden. "You're a funny man, hehehe!~ A Caelist church in Cilligia isn't exactly the best place to discuss death, y'now. But I think I can agree with what you say. Be it a sin or no, killing is rather fun." As a matter of fact, Lily didn't consider killing to be a sin. Wrath involved anger, which her killing didn't, and she did pray before and after every job. Besides, most of the people she killed, she did so in the name of the Caelist Church, so it seemed all good to her. Of course, Ayden probably didn't care about such things as that, nor did Lily plan to ramble on about them.

[Guest]

"A Caelist church in Ciliegia isn't exactly the best place to discuss death, y'now. But I think I can agree with what you say. Be it a sin or no, killing is rather fun." Oh? Ayden arched an eyebrow once more, surprised by what this young thing had hidden beneath her pale, rather... short exterior. Perhaps the youth of today would continue to surprise him beyond the stereotypical bar set... well, it didn't seem particularly likely, but Jay and Chalybs had thus far proved that some of the younger members of the generation indeed had... willpower, character, and drive... but... the masses outweighed the whole, as it was. Especially in this case. Close, but no cigar, just yet; Ayden was a man with his views as stalwart as his line of 'work' - which crossed into the realms of both business and pleasure, most of the time.

"Fate has a cruel enough sense of irony, let us humour it," Ayden murmured. It was true. He had taken from him family, friends, sight, even the prospect of love; and all because he was born an intellectual. He had recovered one and reforged possibly two; but blood that thick would never change. It would forever be marred by the clogging poison of alcohol and smoke. His one remaining family member would forever haunt his memories and nightmares, no matter how much the silver-haired assassin would repress it. "I have no desire to leave yet," The man said bluntly, seating himself back onto the pew and sighing.

She had spoken in Cerisian... yet her accent in both languages was almost perfect. It was astounding. A woman barely into the full depth of adulthood, and yet she was licensed, hired even, to give sermons, and knew at least two languages, and showed a desire for more. Ayden scanned her up and down a third time; something still didn't strike him as right. Her hunger for knowledge, though, was... intriguing.

"Your name?" He asked bluntly, sweat still clinging to his clammy, pale skin. Shaken, yet calming, he was still... off. Something didn't feel right. Something that had never felt right. It was rising up, breaking and cresting inside a deep pit hidden within the darkest fathoms of his gut.

[Lily Rosario]

Lily grinned, taking a seat near Ayden. "I never did say anything about leaving just yet, now did I?" With a light twinkle in her eyes, she glanced at Ayden, finding his attitude to be rather amusing. Interesting, yes, but amusing. So she felt the need to humor him a bit. She could tell, by what he said, he was either a serial killer, a happy assassin, or one who has read too many Batman comics and enjoyed everything the Joker said. Her bet was on the second one, as she too fit that description. She pondered on thoughts such as those until he spoke again. "Reverend Lily Sky Rosario, in full color. But Lily should suffice. And what may I have the pleasure of calling you?" Grinning, she was as she stated her entire title and name; normally, she'd just say Lily, or even Lily Rosario. But of course, in this setting, and with this person, she felt it neccesary to be a bit theatric, so her entire name was spoken. And what his name was, she awaited to find out...

[Guest]

"Reverend Lily Sky Rosario, in full color. But Lily should suffice. And what may I have the pleasure of calling you?" He rose an eyebrow, and inspected the girl once more. A reverend? He'd been surprised by the fact that she was even permitted to give a sermon. But someone who held that much power in the clergy... hm. It was... strange. But, alas, that was the way of the world. Cultures and lives differed as such. He was one who killed, there were those who made life; whether Lily was a reverend who controlled or wished for 'the Lord's subjects' to be free... that was a matter of deep thought and perspective. Opinion. It was the reason the world was such a variable place; so great, and yet so terrible. To some, he was a cold-blooded murderer; hell, to most. But to a handful, a privileged, enlightened few... he was a visionary. A pioneer, an artist.

"Ayden Derocha. I hold no title, I am not a reverend, nor a doctor or professor," He trailed on, before snapping back to the girl and grinning. "Not in the literal sense, anyway," Should he continue? Perhaps he should. She already knew of his art, the finest of forms and creations... and, this was a vacation, whilst he was on his way to Briggs... aye, why not? Make the most of it, he guessed.

"I am a pioneer of my art, a craftsman; but sadly, the world seems to turn me away, shun me, because society wishes not to accept me," He feigned sadness, staring off into the sunlight and the middle-distance. "I am different, and thus I am rejected..." He sighed, before turning - gently, this time, no snapping, sudden movements - back to the girl. "Sad, is it not? One artist is famous, and another, infamous. I suppose, though," He giggled, oh-so-quietly. "I may as well take renown where I can get it, eh~?"

[Lily Rosario]

"Ayden Derocha... I'll remember that. His name should be easy enough to remember, given his rather uncommon appearance and his unique personality thus far. As he noted that he was of no important title in a literal sense, Lily looked to him, curious. “Oh? Well if not in the literal sense, than how so?” Her answer was soon given, as he explained the struggles of his art. The art of death, he’d said before. With all this talk of art and death, Lily was admittedly fascinated. “No appreciation? Poor thing… Well, y’know what? I think you might be on to something.” Oh, now it was Lily’s turn to throw up some theatrical flair. Standing abruptly, she moved a bit closer to Ayden, grinning. “Books can rot, paintings fade, records scratch and sculptures rust. Statues crumble, vases break. Fine wine is drank, and poems forgotten~” With a dramatic twirl, Lily was now grinning almost as giddily as Ayden had been when he first explained his art to her. “None of that art is forever! Fireworks are gone in an instant!~ Prize roses die!~ The only art that lasts eternity…” A dramatic pause, as Lily continued facing away from Ayden, and Lily snapped backwards to look at him, a shining grin on her face, a luster in her eyes. “is death!” A brief giggling fit as Lily moved closer to Ayden. “So in a world of critics, I guess they just spring for the temporary.”

[Guest]

“Books can rot, paintings fade, records scratch and sculptures rust. Statues crumble, vases break. Fine wine is drank, and poems forgotten~” Finally, despite her apparent oddness, this woman, this young Caelist reverend... a priest of an order that oppressed even the most basic and simple of free wills... she had appreciation for art, through and through, any and all genres, that greatly transcended his passing predictions.

Cerulean blue irises centred on her; pupils shrunk and narrowed until the light gave them naught but a slit-like shape. Deathly intimidating and giving the already pale-faced assassin an even ghastlier look, the man sat here and watched her continue, in awe of the surprisingly eloquent - for her age, of course - girl. She was nowhere near him; that much was obvious. “None of that art is forever! Fireworks are gone in an instant!~ Prize roses die!~ The only art that lasts eternity… is death!” True. Oh so true; but oh so... familiar. Something he'd reassured himself time and time again. An artist must know that his genre, his style, can be appreciated as timeless, undying, and, above all else, unique. He must tell himself this over and over, before he is finally free to reach his creative apex. Ayden knew this from experience.

The silver-haired assassin sighed, nodding, idly tapping the thick foot of his deep, black boot, lined with moisture and a thin film of wetted dust and silt, thanks, in part, to the weather, to the simplest rhythm, the simplest tune that his mind could fathom. Why? He needed relief. An escape. Reality was harsh; and so Ayden indulged himself in the arts when he needed an exit, a respite. And before he'd known it, that respite had become his life, and reforged him as the maniac the world had known him today. An escape had become an addiction. He needed, desperately, to find the next piece of art; and before long, he found that the only way to sate this endless, nagging, tugging hunger, cold turkey never seeming to quite work and only sending him spiralling further into withdrawal's pains, was to develop masterpieces of his own. An escape had become an addiction. He was truly the Houdini of assassins.

Ayden snapped back to conversation, his body now moving in time with the rhythm, almost vibrating as the toe of his beat repeatedly slammed, as lightly as it seemed possible, against the polished and oiled mahogany pew barely inches from the man's leg. His silver hair swayed, and the beads of sweat had begun to just form in microscopic collection of droplets upon his forehead; together, they united in a wave of cresting, gently trickling effervescence, formed as a visible, glistening film of moisture, salty and clammy, a pad of dampness across an otherwise crisp and dry face, in spite of the pale expression.

It was time to respond, however. "Too true..." The assassin murmured, before repeating that same, bitterly-spat, darkly true phrase. "Too true." The mutter this time subsonic, Ayden snapped back towards his target, and the tapping stopped; his body became a single, rigid form, and even the glimmer of light reflecting across his forehead's sweaty film vanished in a split-second, the very Earth deciding that the silver-haired figure's demeanour was of a high enough priority that it could cause nature to become transient for a split-second.

"Tell me, Miss Rosario..." Ayden's voice was sickly-sweet, an acid layer laying directly below the honey-like charisma. Rich, seductive... entrapping. Like a primitive child's experiment, drawing and then capturing wasps in a used jam jar in the summer heat. "Have you ever pained a man just to see the look in his eyes? To analyse perfectly the summary of human fear?" He paused, before continuing; summarising. "Have you ever pained a man just because it amuses you?" A split-second, almost unnoticeable, a lapse in talking, an irregularity. Silence. "The response... is one of the only things on this Earth I define as true fear, absolute in every and any definition of the word."

[Lily Rosario]

Ah, what charisma Ayden chose to display... Such a poisonously charming tone with which to ask these questions. Normal people, under normal circumstances, would be absolutely mortified by such grotesque talk of murder and killing. Lily should have been, considering she was a priest, a scholar, and a young lady in general. Well, more of a young lad, than a young lady, but the point stands. To be honest, Lily simply had a more open mind that most people. "Indeed, check, and yes. Of course, while some would say it was murder, I like to think of it almost scientifically. Like you said; to study human fear. And for the chance to do just that, and to rid the world of such evil people that I am ordered to? All the better. So what of you? Ever seen someone you knew had no reason to exist, and just..." Lily snapped her fingers, with a grin, bright and deadly. Hmm... With all this talk of murder, Lily wondered... Should she let Ayden in on a dirty little secret? No, no, not the BIG secret. Only Lily and Luke could ever know that they were once Luke and Lily~ But their parents fates? Lily felt that Ayden could appreciate these.

[Guest]

"Of course, while some would say it was murder, I like to think of it almost scientifically. Like you said; to study human fear. And for the chance to do just that, and to rid the world of such evil people that I am ordered to? All the better. So what of you? Ever seen someone you knew had no reason to exist, and just..." Ayden didn't really care of her responses now. They were trivial. She was odd enough and deep enough in the business of killing to be too dangerous to become a plaything, yet not dangerous enough to become an asset or ally. The limbo between the two made her a probable target, and someone that the assassin was most likely to clash with, silver hair, cerulean eyes, pale pink lips, and all.

He nodded slowly, mulling over his words as he went back over and processed them. A scientist in their midst? It appeared she was too in the business of trading blood for money... Ayden scanned her up and down once more, wondering if she may have been the cause of a significant recent drought of business, but ejected the thought from his mind just as quickly as the seed of inception had been planted. She was nowhere near good enough to transcend his skill level. It would have to be at least five fully-trained men or women, well into the business and deranged enough to constantly set themselves on a cold-blooded murderous track; similar to he, save for the fact that he enjoyed bloody murder for a different reason; well, many. Investigative, scientific, and experimental in nature, there were many possibly hypotheses for the cause of the assassin Derocha's depravity.

However, the depths of it would go so far unexplained. The girl had outlived her intrigue; Ayden was ready to leave for now. She had sated him somewhat, but he was hungry; physically so, and mentally, too. His brain lusted for that sweet spattering of crimson; the feel of blood warm splashing against pale flesh, the colours of white and deep red intertwining together with that metallic tang and fresh smell as he licked the remnants from his lips. He was long-overdue a kill; his penance had been paid, he had seen the man who haunted him so once more. It was time to leave; time was a-wasting, and the day's hours were precious. He had a contract in Ishval that needed to be delivered on, it seemed, and then a few more in East. One for General Stuka himself.

The snap of her fingers brought him back to reality; azure eyes locked with her orbs, and he stood to his feet, stretching his body and arching his back like a canine predator sated after hour upon hour of rest. He felt lethargic, dazed; sluggish and stunned. In a moment, the feeling of tiredness would fade. He knew it too well.

But the question? Had he killed? Ayden unleashed a spurt of laughter, and all-too-quickly it turned to a chain of giddy giggles. Energy flowed through him, pulsating and reinvigorating his bloodstream with each successive noise. A laughable question indeed! "Oh, oh..." He wiped an accumulating tear from the corner of his eye, swatting it away and shaking his head. "That... that's funny. Very much so, you've raised my spirits once more!" He couldn't complete the sentence without breaking into chuckling once more, grasping the pew for support with one hand and using the other to clutch his hand.

His knees felt weak; without support, he would buckle and double over, and the only reason he wouldn't cause such a scene is that he needed to leave, and laughter was contagious. Its grasp would take too long to release him, and she could have taken it for belittling; she was dangerous, it was a bad idea. He respected the power she seemed to possess, and murder in a chapel was just bad news all around.

He slowly recovered, jagged spurts of laughter pushed forwards, the last fading echoes emanating from trembling corners of his lips as his eyes settled back into those small cerulean orbs. Twice, he clapped the young girl on the shoulder, and giggled down at her, saying only this: "Thank you. I needed that,"

Finally calmed, the man turned on his heel swiftly, and moved to descend the set of stairs near the church's opening. Shaking his head as he did so, black cloak tails billowed behind him, taking upon itself the deathly black visage of a shroud behind him; and just like that, the man was gone, head turned and eccentric smile concealed by lock upon lock of silver hair. Just as quickly it he had arrived, the fleeting presence of the assassin had vanished, his cares, qualms, and anger all tied up into repentance in those few moments of catatonic repetition of those three words. Memories were left behind here; one at a time, he would shed them all, and become reborn, carve his own story into the history books of this modern world. He'd remake himself, reforge his path, one way or another.

[EXIT THREAD]

[Shula Brighton]

{BUMP}

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