[ Eight hundred years has made him adept at lying. Scarily so. Sometimes he found himself wondering if the memories that came back to him in fragments were truths or a lie made up to comfort him in some way. After so many centuries of blood and destruction on his hands, a part of him didn't think himself capable of having nice things. And that was what made this all the more difficult.
Because why would any sane person try to do away with what he had found? Why would he try to willingly throw away the parts of his life that dulled the aching emptiness inside of him? He knew that this wasn't real. And even if the lives they had hadn't been easy it was still theirs.
The dust and dirt around them flares, and the mortals that share the docks with them being to realize that something is amiss. ]
None of this is real. These stories aren't our lives - we have to wake up. [ His voice rises, timbre and command in an otherwise calm voice. ] Why can't you see that?
no subject
Because why would any sane person try to do away with what he had found? Why would he try to willingly throw away the parts of his life that dulled the aching emptiness inside of him? He knew that this wasn't real. And even if the lives they had hadn't been easy it was still theirs.
The dust and dirt around them flares, and the mortals that share the docks with them being to realize that something is amiss. ]
None of this is real. These stories aren't our lives - we have to wake up. [ His voice rises, timbre and command in an otherwise calm voice. ] Why can't you see that?