| Onias
He had headed south, trailing through the lands like a winding river, slick with oil, serpentine and dark. For the time being, Onias had been simply a watcher, peering into the strange lives of the wolves here with a calculating and cold orange gaze. A man of mystic charm, he found himself out of place amongst the rabble, who lived and died without knowing of their greater purpose. It was a talent of his to see who had a penchant for his dark arts, and who did not, those who would live a life outside of the tenebrousity of ritual and magic. Today, however, he sought not blood or herbs or another follower, but simply conversation of the more normal sort. Onias was nothing if not charismatic, his words dripping saccharine, sanguine, sweet.
Perhaps he was sick, in a way, but he was not blind to that fact. His rituals came true because he believed in them strongly enough to convince others, and in such a way they were cursing themselves. It was a curious cycle that had entranced him from such a young age that he could not imagine leading a different life. Winter, however, was a time of rest for him. It was a time of death. Spring brought renewal and for himself, it brought new opportunity. It was a sort of hibernation, where he rested and regathered, simply observing and making future plans. Onias would not describe himself as dastardly or evil, but he was certainly conniving, as if only to get his way. It was pleasurable to watch others squirm beneath something that they had a part in conjuring.
Such as his thrall, the dark specter that haunted him, the mimic. Onias had sent him away for the day, to hunt, and regretfully he was unsure of what the strange creature would return with. His thin stomach grumbled, aching for food that he rarely provided. Fasting was a common need for most rituals, as it assured soundness of mind, and a physical state in which he could connect with his higher consciousness.
A dark flash of fur through the rocks caught his attention, and the foxlike wolf stirred, standing up and peering through the crags. "Mimic," he called, but the scent was unfamiliar. "Ah, no, not the one I know. Show yourself, stranger." He was not an imposing figure, medium height, narrow and leggy, but his incantations could perhaps send someone weak of mind running with their tails between their legs. How precious it was, to see those unenlightened so afraid of the truth. Onias' orange eyes narrowed, his tail raising slightly behind his narrow hips, but he made no aggressive movement. He had desired conversation, after all.
If you ain't got money, it can't save your soul.
|