“Pride?” Trepas mused lightly, drawing his fingers from his tendrils of ebony hair to his chin in thought, “I believe at one point, yes, I may have been proud of what I have done.” As any he had known in that time would attest, Trepas had been perhaps the most egotistical individual in all of Millenia in his youth, rivaling even the aged likes of Cain with his vanity. He had thought himself invincible, all powerful, a gift to the world. A bloody gift intent on murdering everyone he came across, but a gift nonetheless. Indeed, it had only been her modest ways that had cured his egotism. “It seems that pride has long left me though,” he chuckled bitterly, the first signs of emotion he recalled showing in at least a year, “For better or worse, I can’t much tell.”
Trepas was about to rise to his feet, intent on just entirely avoiding the confrontation, when he heard the boys voice begin once more, “I on the other hand cannot because I don't have a soul." With a deep, burdened sigh, he instead spoke once more, “A soul is not the key to death, it is what is meant to anchor our consciousness to the world of the living. My grandfather has lost his soul, yet he still remains, of his own will and power. His mind has left and with it nothing but chaos remains, but his being is still well alive. There is no death a soul will lead to, only the end of emotions, of compassion. I myself feel I have long lost my soul. It is only this hollow husk that keeps me still in the realm of the living, as I fear it shall always be.”
How many times had he truly sought the embrace of death? How many times had he watched as his own blood pooled around him, felt the agony of his flesh seared and burnt, heard his own cries for an end, to be given nothing in return? This body of his, it was seen as an adaptation, a means for his kinds survival, but it only seemed a tool for their demise in his eyes. Incapable of death, was it any surprise Ghouls desired to see it erupt around them? Was it any surprise they were driven mad in their agonizing millennia of life?
With that thought complete, did Trepas finally rise from his seated position, just in time to be all but attacked by a small girl’s arms around his waist. For a moment he considered pushing her away, to avoid the danger that was soon to befall her, but the very presence she seemed to have on him, the familiarity he felt with her essence, instead urged only for tears to meet his eyes. “Fayme,” he called in a hushed whisper, the empty socket for an eye he had remaining dripping with the crimson liquid it had long held back in his agony. It couldn’t be her, he had seen her corpse, felt the slick touch of her flesh, yet she resonated so strongly to him, this child, that presence. Life would be much too cruel if it wasn’t.
Trepas was about to rise to his feet, intent on just entirely avoiding the confrontation, when he heard the boys voice begin once more, “I on the other hand cannot because I don't have a soul." With a deep, burdened sigh, he instead spoke once more, “A soul is not the key to death, it is what is meant to anchor our consciousness to the world of the living. My grandfather has lost his soul, yet he still remains, of his own will and power. His mind has left and with it nothing but chaos remains, but his being is still well alive. There is no death a soul will lead to, only the end of emotions, of compassion. I myself feel I have long lost my soul. It is only this hollow husk that keeps me still in the realm of the living, as I fear it shall always be.”
How many times had he truly sought the embrace of death? How many times had he watched as his own blood pooled around him, felt the agony of his flesh seared and burnt, heard his own cries for an end, to be given nothing in return? This body of his, it was seen as an adaptation, a means for his kinds survival, but it only seemed a tool for their demise in his eyes. Incapable of death, was it any surprise Ghouls desired to see it erupt around them? Was it any surprise they were driven mad in their agonizing millennia of life?
With that thought complete, did Trepas finally rise from his seated position, just in time to be all but attacked by a small girl’s arms around his waist. For a moment he considered pushing her away, to avoid the danger that was soon to befall her, but the very presence she seemed to have on him, the familiarity he felt with her essence, instead urged only for tears to meet his eyes. “Fayme,” he called in a hushed whisper, the empty socket for an eye he had remaining dripping with the crimson liquid it had long held back in his agony. It couldn’t be her, he had seen her corpse, felt the slick touch of her flesh, yet she resonated so strongly to him, this child, that presence. Life would be much too cruel if it wasn’t.