( for as much as julian gets down on himself, kicks himself around and submits to dramatic feelings of perhaps at least somewhat artificial hopelessness, he used to have such an indomitable spirit. he was a survivor, you know? the storm that claimed most of his family couldn't claim him. the blood-soaked battlefields never dragged him down to their depths. the plague never landed him at the lazaret with the rest of half the population. the years he spent traveling the world couldn't whittle him down. hell, not even a hanging could actually take him out. it isn't enough that he lived through all these things, but that he fearlessly faced them down and was fucking determined to see his purpose through to the end. the same was still true when he was first dragged away in chains to the devil's twisted playground. he survived. he was indomitable. he fought. and fought, and fought, and fought...
and lost, and lost, and lost...
maybe he's getting old.
at this point it's hard to say. he doesn't know how long it's been, just that it's been such a slow, gradual, miserable process. not something that happened overnight. once he finally succumbed to his fate, submitted, accepted defeat, it's not like he opened his eyes and found himself covered in feathers and spines. it still took time. defeat, as he well knows, is not decided in a single loss, or even many losses. real defeat is in the weathering down of the army. it's in the process of exhausting their supplies, their morale, their constitution. this is like that. the torturously slow and horrific gradual transformation of man to monster was the process of his defeat. now he's beaten. thoroughly. it's over. he lost.
there's only one thread of hope left for him to cling to, and it's that, at least in his utter humiliation and torment, his friends are decidedly safe. his bargain made it so. that's all he's got. or so he believed.
when the door opens, he doesn't much have the will to look up. the illusions are such an old hat. the devil's visits are scarce enough that he doesn't fear them anymore. and anyone (anything) else that would come in here isn't anyone worth caring about. they're just monsters like him, that's all. he makes a croaking sort of warbling sound in the back of his throat, swishes his tankard around, and drinks from it. gestures drearily with one taloned hand at any of the chairs.
and then that voice. his chin lifts in a herky-jerky sort of way like he's a poorly oiled animatronic character, not a living thing. his eyes are just about the only recognizable feature he's got left, and even that's a stretch. gunmetal gray, but all the light's gone out of them. he expects an illusion. not... )
What is this?
( not what are you or who are you, but what is this? a trick of his eyes? a trap? a test? something made up just to hurt him? it's his countess, her shape, her voice, her commanding presence, but the design of her is all wrong in a way he knows all too well. it has to be him, doing something sick just to make him crazy. but why? he's already beaten. )
What do you mean, "now"? Stop playing games. It's over. I know already.
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and lost, and lost, and lost...
maybe he's getting old.
at this point it's hard to say. he doesn't know how long it's been, just that it's been such a slow, gradual, miserable process. not something that happened overnight. once he finally succumbed to his fate, submitted, accepted defeat, it's not like he opened his eyes and found himself covered in feathers and spines. it still took time. defeat, as he well knows, is not decided in a single loss, or even many losses. real defeat is in the weathering down of the army. it's in the process of exhausting their supplies, their morale, their constitution. this is like that. the torturously slow and horrific gradual transformation of man to monster was the process of his defeat. now he's beaten. thoroughly. it's over. he lost.
there's only one thread of hope left for him to cling to, and it's that, at least in his utter humiliation and torment, his friends are decidedly safe. his bargain made it so. that's all he's got. or so he believed.
when the door opens, he doesn't much have the will to look up. the illusions are such an old hat. the devil's visits are scarce enough that he doesn't fear them anymore. and anyone (anything) else that would come in here isn't anyone worth caring about. they're just monsters like him, that's all. he makes a croaking sort of warbling sound in the back of his throat, swishes his tankard around, and drinks from it. gestures drearily with one taloned hand at any of the chairs.
and then that voice. his chin lifts in a herky-jerky sort of way like he's a poorly oiled animatronic character, not a living thing. his eyes are just about the only recognizable feature he's got left, and even that's a stretch. gunmetal gray, but all the light's gone out of them. he expects an illusion. not... )
What is this?
( not what are you or who are you, but what is this? a trick of his eyes? a trap? a test? something made up just to hurt him? it's his countess, her shape, her voice, her commanding presence, but the design of her is all wrong in a way he knows all too well. it has to be him, doing something sick just to make him crazy. but why? he's already beaten. )
What do you mean, "now"? Stop playing games. It's over. I know already.