A badly kept secret, that sigh was. A bitter brow contracts, gazing at the pool of red developing in his hand with morbid curiosity. He speaks lowly, faintly, a ghostly window to the bastille of Vayne Solidor. "Touch me. Tell me I feel, for I know naught what feeling is." A pause, his voice fluttering in pain. "I have forgotten."
The answering voice is hollowed, an echo of its true self but the emotion is familiar. Confusion. "My lord?" It comes from a solitary figure who, encased in silvers and onyx, at first had wondered if the man before him had suddenly gone mad – the glittering letter opener staining the once immaculate rug a familiar shade of burgundy, obscuring old, delicately spun weave.
The fountain is tipped and the remainder spills out onto the desk, black being torn from newly fetched parchment as the red meanders where the ink cannot. "The din of a world unbound has wrought such blood before – stained golden fields and muted girdling homes." The pale eyes rise from the wellspring – life to give. Life forgotten and yet so tirelessly replaced with the next moment.
The same voice speaks in definitive tones, humble, but unassuming as he seeks to entreaty sanity from the distance between them. The beast knows his role – not this act. Not this unknown game. "The wound is deep, my lord."
The lilting, soft tone is broken, seeking to belie the frame around it. "When you have seen to it, inquire after Larsa." A white gloved thumb presses into the oozing wound, forcing the crimson trails to ooze to a sputter, a steady beat pulsing through to his covered flesh. "You are dismissed."
The tenuous sensation of unsteadiness blossoms, seeping from its stationary place embedded in animal fibers to curl and stare up at the once again silent Judge Magister.
A second almost too late and his breath rattles within the suffocating darkness.
"Aye, m'lord."
The armor exits the room and Vayne sits slowly to nurse an old scar, abstaining from bringing the marred flesh to his lips.