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[Nh'bdy]

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Like a specter, a black and tan figure walked silently through the rows of headstones. Passing under the cast iron gates, his silent pilgrimage began. Arriving in the cometary was one of the small things Seth did, things that while illogical, seemed to give a certain fairy tale quality to him, or so he had once been told, of course he hadn't been Seth that night. The musing passed the trek to the intersection of The Moat and Virtue Path.

Pausing he took a breath, taking a step, noting it's numerical value in his head, but. Cursing silently, he could feel his body want to run, to push through the crowd that had gathered for some despiting of important things for needless luxuries.

Silently he pressed forward, counting each step to his destination. Mumbling quietly he arrived at the front doors. Fifty-Eight, straight shot, two intersections" he mumbled. He mumbled as he walked, no one seemed to notice as he arrived to the impromptu gathering room he had heard about. Thirty to the East door..one intersection

Then he counted fourteen..ninety-four to the steps of the soul embodiment of his passion. The idol of his malice. The avatar of his opposition.

Removing his glove, Seth caressed the chair with the back of his hand, speaking allowed.



It's not you I hate dear chair..neither is it this castle, nor the wood or stone it was born from, nor the artisans..it is the inhabitant of this spectacular building. His hands raise and lower with the respective locations of each item. It is the beast that sleeps within you..that coils around the same trees, and into the mountains, and down into the soul of each artisan![b] Seth's voice rises but noone seems to notice...Let this be the spark..not a spark of hate..but one of love..Seth's hand's caress the air, approximately where a mask would be if one were sitting in the chair, his voice grows rash, surely wearing a scowl.But not for you..for Sossoria..

Seth exits, producing a small bundle of purple roses, walking twards the scene of the recent murders he mutters into the still air One must pay homage to their contemporaries when they are felled prematurely..
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Work in Progress.
"What do you call a fish with four legs? A stool pidgeon! Bwuagh bwuagh bwuagh bwguagh!"
~Malorn